


You're All I Need To Get By

by AegonVI



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Consider It Handled, Daenerys is President of Westeros, F/M, High Valyrian Pet Names, Infidelity, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is a Fixer, Jon and Daenerys Are Not Related, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Jonerys Endgame, Lawyer Things, Literally Political Jon, Modern Westeros, More Characters and Relationships May Be Added, Political Intrigue, Scandal AU, Trystane Martell Needs A Hug, ha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 131,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14928575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AegonVI/pseuds/AegonVI
Summary: After getting Daenerys elected President of Westeros, Jon Snow left his prestigious job in the Red Keep and started his own crisis management firm, Jon Snow and Associates.  A man who wields words like a sword, the White Wolf can save your reputation and he can just as easily destroy it.  A ruthless political operative, Jon Snow knows your secrets - but he has a few of his own.  Jon can leave the Red Keep, but can he really leave his past with Daenerys behind?  What will the fixer do when he becomes the scandal?Inspired by Scandal.





	1. Isn't There A White Knight Upon A Fiery Steed?

**Author's Note:**

> I was driving home from work the other day listening to Marvin Gaye's "You're All I Need To Get By" when the idea for this fic popped into my head. Accordingly, I want to share the playlist that inspires this story:  
> <https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN>  
> The titles for the chapters are taken from lyrics from this playlist. This first chapter's is taken from "Holding Out For A Hero" by Bonnie Tyler. Thanks for reading!

  


 

Chapter One

“Isn’t There A White Knight Upon A Fiery Steed?”

 

Sam looked around the crowded bar.  He couldn’t help being frustrated.  The last thing he needed was to be set up on a blind date.  Especially in this loud, hipster bar in Flea Bottom.  Someone tapped his shoulder and he took a shaky breath before turning around.

“Samwell Tarly?” a young woman with short brown hair and sharp gray eyes asked him.

“Y-yes,” he replied.

“Arya Stark,” she said.  “What are you drinking, Samwell?”

“Oh, no thank you.  I, um, I just came here to say I couldn’t stay.  I didn’t know how to contact you, but I don’t want to be set up on a blind date.”

Arya smirked.  “This isn’t a date and trust me, you want to stay and listen to me.  What are you drinking?”

“Um, just ale, please,” Sam said.  “If this isn’t a date, then what is it?  If I may ask.”

“Oi!” Arya shouted to the bartender.  “A pint of ale here.”  The bartender glowered at her but poured ale into a pint glass and slid it across the bar towards Sam.

Sam hid his face in the pint glass and took a deep swallow of ale.

“This is a job interview,” she said.

“Job interview?  I didn’t apply for a job,” Sam said.

“Yes, you did,” Arya replied.  “If you hadn’t, then I wouldn’t have your resume here on my iPad, would I?”

Sam eyed her owlishly.  “You have my resume?  Um, I don’t think, I mean, I…”

Arya sighed dramatically.  “Ask me who I work for.”

Sam hid his face in his glass again and drank more ale, avoiding her challenge.

“You really want to ask me who I work for,” she repeated.

Sam slumped his shoulders and relented.  “Who do you work for?”

“Jon Snow,” she said.

Sam straightened suddenly, almost knocking over his glass.  “Jon Snow?” he squeaked.

“Yes,” Arya said.  “And judging by your reaction, I can see that you’re interested.”

Sam couldn’t help but nod enthusiastically.

“Great,” she said.  “I have to admit, though, this isn’t really an interview.  Jon already told me to hire you.  The salary’s shit, but I suspect you don’t care about that.  Job’s yours if you want it.  What do you say, Samwell?  You want to be one of the good guys?”

“Yes,” Sam said.

Arya smirked at Sam’s excited expression.  “Welcome to Jon Snow and Associates, Samwell.  Best job you’ll ever have.”

***

“Jon, aren’t you at least a little worried?” Robb asked.

Clearly untroubled, Jon responded to his nervous right-hand man.  “No.  Why would I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe because we’re three million dragons short.  Maybe because we’re probably about to get killed by Volantene mobsters,” Robb said, exasperated.

“Robb, relax.  It’s not a problem.  They’ll take what we have,” Jon said calmly.

Robb said no more, but fidgeted nervously the rest of the walk to the abandoned warehouse the Volantenes had instructed them to meet at.  The briefcase full of money felt heavy in his hands.  _Not heavy enough_ , he thought.

The warehouse was dilapidated and dimly lit, and Robb did not like the look of it.  He knew it was no use to try and dissuade Jon if he was determined to see this through.  A tall, burly Volantene ushered them inside with a grunt.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Jon greeted the mobsters brightly.  “I have your three million dragons right here.  Do you have the package?”

“You’re three million short,” one of the mobsters told them in a thick Valyrian accent.  “We agreed on six million gold dragons.”

“My apologies, friend,” Jon said.  “This was all the ambassador could get on such short notice.”

“Then go and come back when you have the rest of the money,” the mobster said angrily.

“That’s not going to happen,” Jon replied.

“No?” the mobster asked sarcastically.

Jon stared him down.  “ _Daor_.”

The mobster narrowed his eyes and one of his henchmen casually but obviously pulled his gun and held it in front of him.  Robb felt himself break into a cold sweat and hoped the Volantenes didn’t notice. 

“And why is that?” the mobster challenged Jon.

“Because in exactly four hours, all your names are going to suddenly “pop up” on the Night’s Watch’s no-fly list,” Jon answered matter-of-factly.  “That’s no problem for you though, because you’re all booked on a flight that leaves in two and half hours.  Accordingly, I would suggest that you head to the airport now.  You know what a nightmare airport security is for international flights at KLX.  My associate and I will take what we paid for, you take your three million dragons with my client’s thanks, and we all go our separate ways.”

The mobster pursed his lips, nodded curtly, and snapped the case with the money closed.

“Fantastic,” Jon said, picking up the blue and white banker’s box.  “Pleasure doing business with you.  Safe journey back to Volantis, friends.  _Kirimvose se geros ilas_.”

Jon walked towards the building’s exit holding the banker’s box and Robb followed.  He resisted the urge to look back to make sure that they weren’t being followed.

“For fuck’s sake, Jon,” Robb muttered once they were out of the mobsters’ earshot.

“Robb!” Jon admonished him.  “Language!”

Robb eyed the package.  “Oh right.  Sorry.”

***

“Pleased to meet you, Samwell.  Welcome to Jon Snow and Associates.  We’re all very happy to have you join us,” Jon said, shaking Sam’s hand.  “I want you to meet my team.”  He motioned to each person as he said their names.  “This is my wolf pack, Robb, Sansa, and Arya Stark.  And this big fellow is Sandor Clegane.”

“I’m a huge admirer of your work, Mr. Snow,” Sam gushed.  “Thank you for this opportunity.  I won’t let you down.  It’s an honor to join your law firm.”

“Jon is fine, Samwell,” Jon replied easily.  “And we’re not a law firm.  Some of us are lawyers, but we’re not a law firm.  We solve problems.”

“Manage crises,” Robb added.

“Save reputations,” Sansa said.

“Law firms are for pussies,” Arya spat.  Sandor grunted in agreement with her.

Sam nodded enthusiastically.  “I can do that.  Manage crises, I mean.”

Jon smiled.  “That’s great.  Do you think you can start with this guy?”  Jon flipped open the loose flap on the banker’s box sitting on the conference table and pulled out a baby.  The baby yawned and then gurgled a bit.  “I think he might have a nappy crisis,” Jon said conspiratorially to Sam with a wink.

Sam gaped, but took the baby.  A man and woman hurried into the conference room.  The woman took the baby from Sam, relieved.

“Thank you,” the man said to Jon in a Braavosi accent.  “When the Volantenes kidnapped him, I thought… But you returned my son to me.  I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Ambassador,” Jon said.  “You can take him back to the consulate.  Just please don’t talk about this to anyone.  You know how government agencies can be.”

The ambassador nodded and shook Jon’s hand.  “Thank you,” he repeated.

Sam was dumbstruck and trying to figure out what had just happened as the two Braavosi left the office.

“Good work everyone,” Jon said as a phone rang.

Sansa picked up and listened a moment.  “It’s for you Jon.  Tyrion Lannister needs you to go to the Red Keep.  Says it’s urgent.”

Jon sighed and looked pointedly at his watch.  “Tell him I’m on my way.”

***

Daenerys pushed a thick sheaf of paper across the desk.  Jon sat his coffee down and picked up the papers and started to read aloud.

“’In re. the matter of Barbrey Ryswell, et al., plaintiffs v. Daenerys Targaryen, Does 1-99, defendants.  In the Superior Court of the North in and for the District of Winterfell.’”

Jon raised his eyebrows and continued.  “’Causes of action: Fraud, Civil Conspiracy, Tortious Interference, and Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress.’  For _election rigging_?  Seriously?  This is bullshit, Daenerys.  She has no case.”

Daenerys sighed.  “Don’t you think I know that?  Why in seven hells would I want to rig an election in the North of all places?  It’s harassment.  She wants to embarrass me.”

Jon looked thoughtful.  “More than that.  If this case goes forward, she can subpoena every member of your administration.  I would say that’s the real purpose.”

Daenerys paled.  “What’s your take?  What’s my first move?”

“What did Red Keep Counsel say?” Jon asked.

Daenerys rolled her eyes.  “Varys was no help.  He said Ryswell had sued me personally and I needed to consult my own lawyers.  What do I have Red Keep Counsel for if he won’t advise me?”

Jon thumbed through the papers absently.  “Did you speak to your lawyers?”

“Yes,” Daenerys replied.  “Half want to talk settlement; the other half say we should file a motion for summary judgment.”

Jon frowned.  “You need new lawyers.  Seriously, where did you get these idiots?”

Daenerys crossed her arms.  “Okay.  What do you suggest, counselor?”

Jon set the papers back on the desk and hit them with the palm of his hand.  “You’ll never get a fair hearing in Winterfell.  Not by a judge and certainly not by a jury.  I’m sure you know how Northerners feel about you.”

Daenerys pursed her lips and nodded. 

Jon continued.  “Step one, we file a motion for removal to federal court.  We can claim diversity since you’re being sued for more than 75,000 dragons and you live in King’s Landing.  Ryswell made a mistake asking for so much money.  That works to our advantage.  Step two, we need venue changed to the Crownlands.  We’ll show the court that we have a list of dozens of witnesses who all live here in King’s Landing.  We can claim that Winterfell is an inconvenient forum.  Step three, once we have venue changed, we file a motion to dismiss for failure to state a claim.  This gets the case put to bed quickly.  Even if you win a motion for summary judgment, you could get tied up in this case for years.  It would torpedo your presidency.”

Daenerys eyed Jon skeptically.  “These witnesses you mentioned.  If your plan doesn’t work, Ryswell will subpoena them all.”

“This plan will work,” Jon said emphatically.  “And she would subpoena them all anyway.  The list of people who work for you is a matter of public record.  But if the case is dismissed, she won’t be able to subpoena anyone.  Problem solved.  Like I said, your lawyers are idiots.”

Daenerys took a deep breath.  “Jon.  I need you here in the Red Keep.  I don’t have anyone competent to advise me that I can trust.  Why are you wasting your time as a glorified fixer?”

Jon smiled wanly.  “You have Tyrion.  And I prefer ‘crisis manager.’”

Daenerys rolled her eyes again.  “I suppose a government salary wouldn’t suit you.  Literally.  How much was that getup?  Zegna, right?  About 4,000 dragons I bet.”  At Jon’s amused shrug, she then ran her fingers over the papers.  “You know it’s Bolton who’s behind this, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

Jon grimaced.  “Of course.  Barbrey Ryswell is Roose’s creature.  She wouldn’t make a move like this on her own.”

“If anyone rigged that election, it was Bolton,” Daenerys said.  “All the polls before the election and even the exit polls had Bran Stark ahead by at least five points.  But why is he going after me if he won?  He’s governor now.  It doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if you think like Bolton,” Jon replied.  “He’s not afraid of someone claiming he rigged the election.  No one up there would dare oppose him, not now.  No, he wants to depose someone in your administration.  Election rigging, Ryswell, it’s all a smoke screen.  The only part I don’t know yet is why.  He wouldn’t declare war on House Targaryen in such a dramatic way just to embarrass you.  It’s something else.”

Daenerys sighed.  “I don’t know either.  I know you don’t work for me anymore, but do me a favor, yeah?  Find out.”

Jon nodded.  “Consider it handled.”

Daenerys stepped closer to him until they were nearly touching.  She lifted her head to whisper in Jon’s ear.  “You know it’s not just your advice I’m missing, Jon.  I miss you.”

Jon shook his head but didn’t move away.  “Don’t say that, Daenerys.  You know we can’t.  I can’t.”

Daenerys placed her hand on his arm.  “You miss me too.  You want me.  I know you do.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Jon said.  “What matters is you’re the President of Westeros.  What matters is that you’re married to Trystane Martell.”

Daenerys moved her head to rest her cheek against Jon’s.  “You’re wrong.  Those things don’t matter.  I don’t love Trystane.  I love you, Jon.  And I know you love me.”

Jon closed his eyes and moved his head away.

“Look at me, Jon,” Daenerys said.

Jon reluctantly opened his eyes and looked her.  Daenerys captured his lips in a bruising kiss, sucking his bottom lip between hers and biting down.  Belying his words, his body responded to hers automatically and he wrapped his arms around her.  Jon thought to himself that they couldn’t do this, especially not here in Daenerys’ office.  A staffer could walk in.  _Fucking Trystane_ could walk in, he thought.  But instead of letting her go, Jon pulled her even closer and carded his fingers through her silver hair.  It was like strands of silk against his skin.  Jon moved his lips to leave a trail of searing kisses down her pale throat, and she whimpered.  He could feel her hardened nipples through her thin blouse.

As Jon backed Daenerys against her desk and swept the Ryswell lawsuit papers to the floor, he heard the door open.  He jumped back from Daenerys and spun around.

Tyrion gaped at them.  “I was just thinking that I didn’t have enough problems to deal with.  Fantastic.  Are you two serious?”

Daenerys looked at Tyrion imperiously.  “It’s not your business, Tyrion.”

Tyrion gave her a hard look.  “You need to fix your lipstick and your hair, Madame President.  The Sealord of Braavos is waiting for you.”

Daenerys shook her head and stormed out of the office.

Jon sighed after Daenerys slammed the door and looked at Tyrion.  “You didn’t know,” he said.  “I had thought she would have told you.”

“No,” Tyrion said.  “She tells me most things, but not this.”  The Hand to the President looked very tired and Jon felt a pang of guilt.  Tyrion was an old friend, and clearly distressed.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Jon said.  “It’s over anyway.”

“It didn’t look over a minute ago,” Tyrion replied.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Jon said tersely.  “I need to get back to the office.  Please tell the president I will follow up with her when I know more about this Ryswell business.  And for the gods’ sake, find her some decent lawyers.  There’s got to be a few in King’s Landing with two brain cells to rub together.”  He stormed out of the office leaving Tyrion alone.

Tyrion leaned against the president’s desk, exhausted.  A moment later, an idea occurred to him.  He pulled out his phone.  “Varys, it’s Tyrion.  You know that matter with the aide?  Doreah Lohar?  I want you to get Jon Snow on it.”


	2. Forever In Debt To Your Priceless Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JSA assists a client with a sticky situation and tries to thwart the district attorney’s efforts to get his hands on some embarrassing evidence. Varys asks for Jon to help with another problem at the Red Keep. A trick of High Valyrian grammar reveals a truth. Arya makes a discovery in the Ryswell case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is borrowed from Nirvana's "Heart Shaped Box." You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN). (https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).  
> ***Chapter warning for mentioned sexual assault and ambiguous suicide attempt.***

Chapter Two

"Forever In Debt To Your Priceless Advice."

 

Jon Snow and Associates’ newest client lounged on the leather sofa in Jon’s office watching one of the televisions which as always, was tuned to King’s Landing’s most popular cable news channels, WCN.  The other televisions had news on as well, but they were muted at the moment.  When the coverage switched to live video of the president leaving the Red Keep, Jon looked away.

“What made you leave your position at the Red Keep, Jon?” Chataya asked in her musical Summer Islands accent.  “It was quite a prestigious job, no?  I heard that it was your efforts that put President Targaryen in office.”

Jon wasn’t in the mood for small talk, but there wasn’t anything else to do right now except wait.  He hoped that Sansa and Sandor would be quick about their task.  There was a small window of time for them to retrieve the things they needed from Chataya’s and Jon was eager to get back to work.

Jon gave his client a sad smile.  “It was a difficult decision, but I enjoy doing what I do now.  The people of Westeros elected President Targaryen; I had little to do with it, truly.  The voters knew she was the right person for the job.”

Chataya laughed lightly.  “And so modest as well.  I suppose it is in my favor that you left.  Otherwise I would not have the assistance of the White Wolf with my little problem today.”

Jon winced a bit at the nickname.  He didn’t know exactly how he had come to be known by the same moniker as the legendary Last Hero from the fourth century AC, but he knew that it had certainly not been his idea.

To Jon’s relief, Arya chose that moment to burst into the office.  “It’s time.  Line one.”

Jon hit the speaker button on his desk phone and pushed the blinking light for the call on hold.

“Robb, are they in?” Jon asked.

“Yes, but we don’t have much time.  They saw me,” Robb replied.

“Make sure you get all the photos as well as the books.  When you’re finished, come straight back to the office,” Jon said.

They only had to wait a few minutes before Robb, Sansa, and Sandor returned.  Jon looked over the items retrieved from Chataya’s.  “Is everything here?” he asked Chataya.

Chataya went through the stack of photos and books.  “Yes, thank you.”  She let out a breath and appeared to relax.

Sam appeared in the doorway, eyeing them curiously.  “What’s all this?”

Jon and his associates exchanged a look.  Arya smirked.  Chataya favored Sam with a motherly smile.  Jon motioned at Sam.  “Miss Chataya, this is my newest associate, Samwell,” Jon explained.

“Hello Samwell,” Chataya said.  “I am Chataya and I run King’s Landing’s finest brothel.  And ‘all this’ is a collection of things my clients and I would very much not like to end up in the hands of the district attorney’s office.”  Sam’s eyes widened comically and Chataya laughed.

“Samwell, could you fetch a cup of coffee for our client, please?” Jon asked.  “And one for me too.  Black,” he added wearily.

“Lots of cream and sugar for me, dear,” Chataya said.

Sam nodded and scurried to the kitchen.

Sansa tapped her foot impatiently.  “How long until Willas gets here do you think?”

Robb rolled his eyes.  “You seem to be in quite a hurry for him to get here.  It’s not a good thing, you know.”

“Government employees are lazy cunts,” Sandor said.  “He probably won’t bother showing until tomorrow.”

Robb shook his head.  “Not this one.  I have five dragons says he’s here within an hour.  What do you think, Jon?”

Jon glanced at his watch.  “A hundred says he busts through that door before Samwell gets back with the coffees.”

Chataya batted her thick black eyelashes at him.  “I just love a high roller,” she cooed.  Jon blushed.

Ten seconds later, the office door flew open and District Attorney Willas Tyrell marched in.  Robb scoffed when Jon shot him a smug grin as the DA walked towards Jon, who stood to meet the visitor.  The DA’s face was murderous and he motioned angrily at Jon with his wooden cane.  Sandor growled and stood between Jon and Willas.  Jon shook his head at Sandor and motioned for him to back off.

“Do the phrases ‘obstruction of justice’ and ‘search warrant’ mean nothing to you, Snow?” Willas shouted.

Jon looked at Willas with mock confusion.  “I don’t know what you mean, Willas.  I wasn’t aware of any search warrant.  I merely sent some of my employees to fetch a few of my client’s personal belongings.  Can’t say I was expecting you to show up.  It’s pretty late.  Does the DA’s office pay you overtime for this sort of thing, or is this a social call?”

Robb badly disguised a laugh as a cough.  “Mr. Tyrell, we’re _officers of the court_.  We wouldn’t dream of _obstructing justice_ ,” he protested innocently.

“Don’t play stupid with me,” Willas said to them both.  “I have enough to arrest your little brothel keeper friend right now.  Don’t test me.”

“Hmm.  Does the phrase ‘arrest warrant’ mean nothing to you, Tyrell?” Jon asked, amused.  “Because it doesn’t look to me like you have one.  Probably best if you come back later once you have the right paperwork.”

Sansa sauntered up and stepped in front of Jon.  “Hi Willas,” she said sweetly.  The angry glare disappeared from Willas’ face.  “Are we still on for Saturday?” she asked.  Willas furrowed his brow briefly but nodded.  “Wonderful,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.  “I’ll see you then.”  Willas blushed as Sansa retreated.

Willas looked at Jon again and narrowed his eyes.  “This isn’t over, Snow,” he hissed before turning and exiting the office.  Jon yawned.

“Really, Sansa?” Jon asked, annoyed.  At Sansa’s indifferent shrug, laughter filled the office.

***

The ruins of the Dragonpit loomed ominously on Rhaenys’ Hill as Jon deftly maneuvered his white 1989 Porshe 911 through King’s Landing’s typical rush hour traffic.  Robb and Sansa could tease him about the car (which he affectionately referred to as “Ghost”) all they wanted, but Jon didn’t see the point in getting a so-called “more practical” car.

Jon wasn’t sure why Varys always insisted on this kind of cloak-and-dagger bullshit.  He would have preferred to meet at the Red Keep, which was much closer to his office, than a ruined pen for mythical beasts.  Jon spotted a non-descript sedan with government plates, which he assumed belonged to Varys, and parked next to it.

Varys approached him from the north side of the ruin.  “Thank you for coming to meet me here, Jon.”

“How can I assist the Red Keep Counsel’s office today, Varys?” Jon asked.

Varys smiled.  “We have a problem with an aide.  Doreah Lohar.”  He handed Jon a photo of an attractive young woman with chestnut hair and wide gray-green eyes.  “She claims to be intimately involved with the president.”

Jon examined the photo.  “Is she?” he asked nonchalantly.

Varys snorted.  “Of course not.  You know President Targaryen.  Quite well, if my sources are accurate.  And they always are.”

Jon narrowed his eyes.  “You want me to shut her down.”

Varys handed Jon another photo and tapped on it.  “You’ll be able to find her here, at Blackwater Park.  She goes there every day after work.”

Jon folded both photos and tucked them in his jacket pocket.  “I need to see her, Varys.”

Varys tried to object.  “The president’s schedule is so busy; you must understand.”

“No.  She can make time if this is so important.  She needs to look me in the eye and tell me this girl is lying,” Jon said firmly.  Varys nodded reluctantly.

***

“Where have you been, Jon?” Robb asked, irritated.  “Shit’s been hitting the fan here.”

“Working,” Jon answered.

“Fine.  While you’ve been ‘working,’ the DA served us with a subpoena for the things we took from Chataya’s,” Robb said.  “Chataya was arrested this morning.  Arya has gone to bail her out.”

“Have you already started on the motion to quash?” Jon asked.

“Already drafted, filed, and served.  Ex-parte hearing is in two hours,” Robb said.

“Sounds like you have things pretty well in hand here,” Jon observed.  “Are you making the appearance or do you need me to do it?”  Jon knew very well that Robb could handle anything that might happen at the office in his absence and was just being difficult.

“I can do it,” Robb said, bristling at the ridiculous suggestion that he couldn’t make a simple court appearance.  “But that isn’t the point, Jon.  What’s going on?  More problems at the Red Keep?”

Jon sighed.  “You could say that.  Varys wants me to deal with an issue that’s popped up.”

“He knows you don’t work for Daenerys anymore, right?” Robb asked.  “Are you going to do it?”

“Not sure yet.  That’s what I’m about to find out.  In fact…”  Jon looked at the TV and saw the live news coverage of the president and Tyrion walking towards the presidential helicopter.  _This will save a little time,_ he thought.  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Tyrion’s number.

“Put her on,” Jon said without preamble when Tyrion answered.  He stared at the TV and watched Daenerys take the phone.

“Can you look to your left, Daenerys?”  Jon requested.  Daenerys turned and waved at the reporters with a wide smile.  “Have you been intimately involved with Doreah Lohar?” Jon asked.

Daenerys’ smile faltered slightly but she recovered and answered earnestly.  “No.  Absolutely not.”

“Great,” Jon said.  “Thought so.  That’s all I needed to know.  Safe journey, Madame President.”  He ended the call and pocketed the phone.  Robb raised his eyebrows, surprised.

“Robb, find out everything there is to know about Doreah Lohar and text it to me,” Jon said.  “I need to head out for a bit.” 

“I’m on it,” Robb said.  He started tapping away on the laptop in front of him.

“Samwell, I need you to come with me to run an errand,” Jon called loudly.  Sam quickly appeared in the office.

“No problem, Jon,” Sam said.  “Where are we going?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

***

Sam was the one to spot Doreah Lohar sitting on a bench in Blackwater Park.  Jon checked his phone for Robb’s text and quickly scanned the information that he’d been sent.  Before approaching her, Jon took Sam aside.

“You’re here as a witness, Samwell.  You don’t need to say anything,” Jon said.  “If you get subpoenaed later, you can say that I didn’t threaten or try to blackmail her.  If you don’t get subpoenaed, then we were never here.  This didn’t happen.  Understand?”

Wide-eyed, Sam nodded.  “Yes,” he said unsteadily.  “But what if she’s telling the truth?”

“She’s not,” Jon said.

With Sam trailing behind him, Jon walked up to the bench and sat next to Doreah and flashed her a friendly smile.  “Lovely day for a walk in the park, wouldn’t you say?  Although the weather won’t be nice like this for much longer.  Winter is coming.”

Doreah eyed him warily.  “I suppose that’s so,” she replied.

Jon’s smile disappeared.  “Doreah, I came here to give you some advice, and I really hope that you take it.”

The young woman looked startled and suspicious.  “Who are you?  How do you know my name?”

“My name is Jon Snow, and I’m a personal friend of President Targaryen.  I don’t work at the Red Keep and I’m not a government employee.  I’m just here to talk with you,” Jon said.

Doreah blew out a breath and looked away.  “You don’t understand,” she said.

“Actually, I really do,” Jon said.  “Believe it or not.  But it would be a mistake to think that there won’t be any consequences for spreading lies about the president.  You would be associated with a sex scandal.  Permanently.  The media would harass you.  They will _never_ leave you alone.  Never.  It will be hard to find a job.  Even twenty years from now, people will remember your name, and not in a good way.  News vans will block your parents’ street.  That would surely make their lives difficult, especially as Lysene immigrants trying to start a small laundry business and put three more children through college.  You’re the oldest of your siblings, right?  I remember high school being bad enough without being mocked as the brother of an alleged presidential paramour.”

“Why are you doing this?” Doreah asked, on the verge of tears.  “I’m telling the truth.  I’m not a bad person.”

“I didn’t say you were a bad person, Doreah,” Jon replied.  “I said you were a liar.  It’s not quite the same thing.  And I know you probably don’t believe this, but I’m doing this because the president is my friend and we both want to help you.”

Jon looked at her intently then and she instinctively backed further away from him on the bench.  “Here’s my advice,” Jon said implacably.  “Quit your job at the Red Keep.  Pack your things.  Leave King’s Landing.  There are great opportunities for a bright young woman such as yourself other places in Westeros.  High Garden is beautiful.  Winterfell is cold, but the people there are quite friendly.  Storm’s End is also quite nice if you don’t mind the rain.  No one is going to believe you, Doreah.  Your career in King’s Landing is finished.  You’re done.”

Doreah let out a sob, got up, and quickly walked away.  Sam looked shocked.  Jon glanced at him apologetically before pulling out his phone and dialing Varys.

“It’s handled.”

***

When Jon arrived back at the office, he saw that Sansa had spread out Chataya’s photos in the conference room and taped printouts of information on every name in her black books to the wall.  Arya was furiously pounding away at the keyboard of her laptop.  Sansa was arranging photos on the table.  When she saw Jon, she picked up one of the printouts.

“These black books could double as a who’s who of King’s Landing.  That’s not a surprise considering Chataya’s rates.  But this name could be a problem for your friends at the Red Keep,” Sansa said.  She handed him the printout.

“Lyn Corbray,” Jon said.  “Nominee for Master of Laws.  It was announced last week and the confirmation hearing starts in ten days.  Gods, I fucking warned them about that asshole.  As much as they claim to need my advice, how often do they follow it?”  Jon shook his head and pulled out his phone.

“That’s not everything,” Sansa continued.  “Chataya said that Corbray is a _former_ client.  She decided to stop ‘servicing’ him after he abused one of her employees.  A boy of 18.”  She handed him a photo.

Jon grimaced and called Tyrion.  “I have something you need to see.  No, it’s not related to Ryswell or Lohar.  Yes, it’s urgent, dammit.  Alright.  Two hours.  See you then.”

Sandor loomed in the doorway to the conference room.  “Just got a call about a Doreah Lohar.  You know her?”

“Yes.  What about her?” Jon snapped.

“She wandered into traffic and got hit by a car.  She’s at Baelor General.  She’s in serious but stable condition. She’s awake and apparently asking for you.”

“Fuck,” Jon said.  “Sandor, you’re with me.  Let’s go.”

***

Doreah was awake but heavily medicated when Jon and Sandor arrived at the hospital.  The nurse glared at Jon and Sandor and admonished them.  “She’s in a fragile state right now.  Do not upset her, do you understand?” 

Jon nodded and the nurse left the room.  Doreah blinked her eyes a few times when she saw Jon and Sandor.  “Jon Snow, personal friend of Daenerys Targaryen,” she slurred.  “Fancy meeting you here.”

“You asked for me,” Jon said.

“Mmm.  Yeah,” she said thickly.  “Just wanted to say I’m not a liar.  Tell Dany I love her.  I’m going away like you said.  Your advice.  You’ll tell her, hmm?  You’re her friend.  She calls me ‘ _ñuhys dārilaros_ ,’ you know.  Is High Valyrian.  My princess.”  Doreah’s eyes fell shut.

Jon walked out of the room and Sandor followed.  He stood there a moment considering all the implications of what he had just heard.  _Ñuhys dārilaros,_ he thought.  _Not only ‘my princess.’  It’s gender neutral.  It also translates to ‘my prince.’_   A phrase he had heard many times in a very different context.  He resisted the urge to punch a hole in the wall. 

Sandor noticed.  “I’ve seen that look before.  Almost feel a little sorry for whoever it is who’s about to have the wrath of the gods come down on them.”

Jon smiled then, but it wasn’t the kind of smile one would want to see.  It was twisted with anger.  “It’s not the wrath of gods she needs to worry about.  The gods forgive.  I don’t.”

Sandor eyed the woman in the hospital room.  “That one?”

“No, not Doreah,” Jon said.  “Because she just became my client.”

***

Sandor grumbled as he struggled to fold his large frame into Jon’s little car.  Usually this would amuse Jon, but he was too angry.  Jon’s phone rang in his pocket.  He put the call on speaker and threw the phone on the dash as he pulled out into traffic to head to the Red Keep.

“Yes Arya?” Jon said impatiently.

“I found something on Ryswell,” Arya said.  “Not much yet, but it might be important.  I accessed Ryswell’s accounts and she’s been receiving regular payments from a crooked Dreadfort lawyer who goes by the name Damon Dance-for-Me.  The largest one, 50,000 dragons, was deposited the day Daenerys was served with the complaint.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Jon said.  “He’s connected to Bolton.  He’s supposedly part of Ramsay’s crew, the so-called ‘Bastard’s Boys.’”

“Right,” Arya said.  “The obvious conclusion is that Ryswell is being bribed into doing this, but I’m still digging.  That’s all I have now.”

“I’ll pass it on to the president,” Jon said.  “I need you to do something for me, Arya.  Sandor and I just left Baelor General.  Can you go down there and keep an eye on Doreah Lohar?  Once she’s ready to be discharged, I want to see her.  Bring her to the office.” 

“I’m on my way there now,” Arya said.  The call disconnected and as Jon drove, he concentrated on controlling his anger.  He needed to be calm for the meeting ahead of him.

***

Tyrion met Jon and Sandor in Daenerys’ office.

“The president is on her way,” Tyrion said.  “You can have a seat.  She’s just wrapping things up with the small council.”

“That’s no problem,” Jon said.  “I’m not in a hurry.  They didn’t need you there?”

“I left early.  It’s just my brother blathering about mineral rights in the Westerlands.  Nothing important.  Anything to stall so he doesn’t have to go home to his wife,” Tyrion observed wryly.

Jon smirked.  “How is Vice President Lannister these days?”

“Naturally, my brother is as uninterested in mineral rights as the next person,” Tyrion quipped.

Jon set two folders, one manila and one red, on the coffee table in Daenerys’ sitting area.  He picked up the manila one and handed it to Tyrion.

“As much as I hate to say I told you so, it appears that your would-be Master of Laws is unfit to hold high government office,” Jon said.

Tyrion blanched at the photo as he removed it from the folder.

“I like Chataya, but I must admit that she’s not as diligent about age verification as I would be in her position.  It’s a little hard to tell from the photo because of the two black eyes and broken jaw, but I really don’t think that boy is actually 18,” Jon said.

Tyrion reviewed the printout, his jaw clenched.  “Thank you for bringing this to me, Jon.  Nothing like this came up in the vetting process.”

“I know.  It was just a gut reaction on my part when I warned you about him.  Usually I can trust my gut,” Jon said.  _Almost always_ , he thought.

Tyrion placed the folder back on the table.

“Arya also turned up something on Ryswell,” Jon continued.  “She connected Ryswell to one of Bolton’s associates.  A Damon Dance-for-Me.  He has been depositing money into one her accounts.  The largest deposit, 50,000 dragons, was made the day the president was served with the Ryswell complaint.”

“You think she was bribed?” Tyrion asked.

“Looks that way,” Jon said.  “We’re still working on it.”

Daenerys walked into office a moment later.  Hair loose and falling down her back like sheets of silver rain, her lilac eyes met his gray ones.  When she saw the look on his face, her smile died.

“Give us the room,” she said.  Tyrion looked surprised but said nothing.  He followed Sandor out of the office.

Jon stared at her a moment, his face an icy mask.  “ _Ñuhys dārilaros,”_ he said, his eyes boring into hers _._ “I studied High Valyrian in college, did you know that?  Of course you do.  That was part of the joke.  It wouldn’t be a very sweet pet name if you had to translate it for me.  _Ñuhys dārilaros_ is gender neutral.  A prince or a princess.  Did you have to explain to Doreah what it means?”

“Jon, listen to me,” Daenerys said.  “You don’t understand.”

Jon laughed.  “She said the same thing.  ‘You don’t understand.’  I suppose that’s true.  I didn’t.”

“You asked me if I had been intimately involved with her,” Daenerys argued.  “I hadn’t.  I would hardly call a single kiss and a muttered endearment an ‘intimate relationship.’”

“It felt pretty damned intimate when you were moaning it in my ear,” Jon retorted acidly.

Daenerys balled her hands into fists and stepped closer to him.  “You left!  What did you expect?  For me to wait patiently for you to change your mind?  To beg for Trystane’s scraps when he’s done with his harlots?”

“Change _my_ mind?  Are you fucking kidding me?” Jon shouted.  “You think I’m _jealous_?”

“If you’re not, then what is the point of this remedial grammar lesson?” Daenerys asked.

“Daenerys, I don’t care if you shove your tongue down the throat of every staffer in the Red Keep.  I asked you a question, and you lied to me.  You didn’t have the decency to talk to a woman who works for you, so you set your advisors on her.  They couldn’t be bothered to do it themselves, so they thought to sic the _‘White Wolf’_ on her.  You thought I wouldn’t help you if you told me the truth, so you lied to my face and had me destroy that girl!”

Jon’s face was red with fury but he continued.  “I trusted you, and you _lied_ to me.  That girl?  Doreah?  She wandered into traffic and is in the hospital!  She could have died, Daenerys!  Don’t you even care about _your princess_?”

Daenerys’ voice was shaky when she responded.  “Doreah’s in the hospital?  Which one?”

“Baelor,” Jon hissed.  “I _fixed_ her.  Like you asked.  Oh, by the way, she asked me to tell you she loves you.”

Daenerys stared at him coldly.  “How can you blame _me_ for things _you_ said?  And I never asked you to talk to her.  Varys did.”

“You’re unbelievable.”  Jon shook his head and reassumed his usual calm demeanor.  “I came to tell you that you need a new Master of Laws and that we’re making progress on Ryswell.  Tyrion will fill you in.  I told you I would handle Ryswell, and I will.  I’m a man of my word.  But after that, we’re done.  You looked me right in the eye and lied to me.”  His voice started to break, almost imperceptibly.  “You clouded my judgment.”

Jon rounded the table and picked up the red folder to hand to Daenerys.  “I have a gift for you.”

Daenerys took the folder.  “What’s this?” she asked flatly.

Jon glared at her.  “Don’t play innocent with me, Madame President.  I campaigned with you for eight months.  Surely you know a kill folder when you see one.”

The folder was empty save for one of Jon’s business cards.  “It’s empty,” Daenerys observed, unnecessarily.

“That’s right,” Jon said icily.  “I’ll give you some free advice, just like I gave to my _client_ , Doreah Lohar.  Give that folder to Tyrion and have him fill it with all the dirt he can find on me.  You’re going to need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch! This conversion isn't over, though...  
> So who's lying? Everyone and no one. Doreah was exaggerating, Daenerys was concealing a (small) truth, and Jon is lying to himself.  
> Thanks for reading! I love comments :)


	3. We’re Right, We’re Free.  We’ll Fight, You’ll See.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys looks back on how she and Jon met. Daenerys has a few things she needs to say to Jon. Chataya’s case gets wrapped up. Doreah and Jon talk about best outcomes. Robb, Sam, and Sansa take a trip. Tyrion receives a package.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is borrowed from Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It." You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN). (https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).

 

 

Chapter 3

“We’re Right, We’re Free.  We’ll Fight, You’ll See.”

 

_Free Republic of Northern Westeros, 2014 AC_

Even under layers of goose down, wool, and Gore Tex, Daenerys was freezing.  It had stopped snowing, but the bone-chilling cold remained.  She looked up at the Wall and her shiver then had nothing to do with the cold.  Her teeth chattered.

“It’s even colder up top,” she heard a man say next to her.  She turned towards him and saw a man bundled up similarly to her, but he didn’t seem bothered by the cold.  _A wildling, perhaps_ , she thought.  He definitely had a northern look about him with dark gray eyes and black curls escaping the edge of his wool cap.  Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him.

“Thanks, that’s what I needed to hear,” she replied with a grim smile.  The man laughed.

“Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that,” he said.  He extended a gloved hand to her and she shook it.  “Jon Snow,” he said.  When their hands met, she could have sworn she heard him gasp.  He looked intently in her eyes as if trying to comprehend some strange phenomenon he hadn’t thought possible.  Under his heated gaze, she suddenly didn’t feel cold anymore.  “Daenerys Targaryen,” she said.  “Pleased to meet you.”

“We really appreciate your being here, Senator Targaryen,” Jon said after taking a deep breath.  “It means a lot to the refugees that you’re doing this.  Southerners don’t like to think about what happens up here.  This will force them to pay attention.”

“Especially if I fall off,” she said, laughing nervously.  “Have you climbed it before?”

“This will be the sixth time,” he said.  “The trick is to not think about falling off.  And whatever you do, don’t look down.  I made that mistake the first time.  The man under me had to finish climbing covered in vomit.”  He winced.  “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that either.”

Daenerys smiled.  “It’s okay.  I’ve been told what to expect.  It’s just so different seeing it in real life.  Are you from north of the Wall?”

Jon shook his head.  “No, I’m from Winterfell.  But I’ve been involved with the Refugee Legal Action Project for a few years now.  This is the first time we’ve had a southern politician participate in a climb.  Everyone’s really excited.  Especially because it’s you.  I’m a huge admirer of your work in Meereen and Vaes Dothrak.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys said.  “I hope that if enough people take notice, no one will be forced to do this anymore.”

As a politician, Daenerys was rarely at a loss for words, but for a moment she and Jon stared at each other and she was helpless to find something to say to break the tension.  Thankfully she was rescued by a loud voice behind her.

“Alright everyone,” Ygritte Wylde, the organizer of the climb, shouted.  “It’s time.  Strap on your crampons and turn on those GoPros.  We’re going to split up into rope teams of twos and threes.  Who is a first-time climber?”

Daenerys, Trystane, and a red headed boy who looked about 15 raised their hands. 

“Okay, you three will be paired with an experienced climber,” Ygritte said.  “Mr. Martell, you’ll be with me.  Senator Targaryen, you’ll be with Jon.  Tormund, Arya, and Rickon will be together.  Make sure you have your passports secure!  No matter how recognizable your face might be, we can expect to be hassled by the Night’s Watch on the other side.  Just another one of President Baratheon’s draconian immigration directives!  Is everyone ready?”

Her question was met with enthusiastic “ayes” from the group.  When everyone started moving towards the Wall, Jon took her aside.

“If you don’t want to do this, it’s okay,” he said quietly.  “It’s already so much that you’re here.  No one will think any less of you, Senator.”

Daenerys lifted her chin to meet his eyes.  “I’m doing this,” she said resolutely.  “And if I’m counting on you to not let me fall off a 700-foot wall of ice, call me Daenerys.”

“That’s what I thought, Daenerys,” he said with a sad smile.  “I needed to say it anyway.  I can’t lie to you; it’s very dangerous.”

“That’s why I need to do it,” she said.  “Shall we go?”

Jon nodded.

*** 

It was so much harder than she thought it would be to not look down.  It was impossible to tell how far up they were.  All she could see was the wall of ice in front of her and the white sky above her.  The muscles of her legs burned and her hands felt like they were made of the same ice as the Wall.  Making sure her first climbing axe was secure, she struck the ice again with her other axe.

It happened quickly, but it seemed like slow motion.  A crack spread from where she had struck her first axe, and the ice below it gave way.  Suddenly, she was free falling.  When the rope attached to her harness ran out of slack, she felt a hard jolt, then she fell a few more feet.

She was too frightened to scream.  She looked up and a small chunk of ice hit her forehead just below her helmet.  Blood ran into her eye but she could see that Jon had lost his grip as well, and was hanging by a rope attached to a single ice screw.  He swung an axe into the ice and dug a crampon into the ice.  He pulled at the rope and she was lifted past where the sheet of ice had detached.

The wind was screaming in her ears, but she heard Jon yelling down to her as he extended his gloved hand.

“Take my hand!” he shouted.  Her heart pounding, she gripped his hand and was pulled up.  It was at that very wrong moment that she looked down, and vomited.  The 85,000 people watching her GoPro live stream from home had a perfect view of her breakfast sailing hundreds of feet towards the snow below.

***

The descent was much easier, as they used an abandoned staircase cut into the Wall’s south face by the ancient Night’s Watch near the ruins of the Nightfort.  Determined not to look anywhere but in front of her, Daenerys didn’t see the crowd until she was nearly on the ground.  When she finally stepped onto solid ground, she felt two huge hands around her waist and she was swung around by a laughing Tormund and carried to a stage.

A few feet away, several reporters were surrounded by cameras of several cable and local news outlets.

 _“…reporting at the Wall near the Nightfort where Crownlands Senator Daenerys Targaryen has climbed the 700-foot high wall with a group of wildling refugee activists_ ,” Daenerys heard a reporter say to one of the cameras.  She felt the cameras on her.

The crowd roared.  It seemed like there were at least 20,000 people crowded in the snow around the stage.  A chant began in the crowd when she walked towards a microphone set up in the center of the stage.

“DAE-NER-YS!  DAE-NER-YS!  DAE-NER-YS!” 20,000 people shouted into the freezing night air.  Floodlights shining in her eyes, it was difficult to see the crowd.  She looked over and saw the other climbers standing a few feet away.  Jon smiled at her widely and tilted his head toward the microphone.

Frozen to the bone and covered in blood, Daenerys took a deep breath, and spoke.  “Every day in the Free Republic of Northern Westeros, hundreds of men, women, and children fleeing from brutality and starvation climb this wall seeking a better life here in the south.  The ones who make it are herded into squalid refugee camps where they must stay indefinitely hoping that their applications for asylum are granted.  But many don’t survive the climb.  This is unacceptable!  It’s a disgrace!”

“This isn’t who we are.  It’s not who we should be.  We must do better than this.  We are better than this!”

The cheers from the crowd were deafening.  The chanting of her name had given way to random shouts of “Daenerys for president!” and “President Targaryen!”  She paused a moment and continued.  “The time for immigration reform in the Republic of Westeros is now!  Every single person alive today on the continent of Westeros is descended from immigrants.  Even the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne to immigrate here from Essos 14,000 years ago.” 

“I want to tell you a story.  Many years ago, a family sailed west to escape a fate of certain death.  They settled on Dragonstone, and eventually became septons, soldiers, maesters, and leaders.  They wanted a better life for their family and a better Westeros for all of us.  They aren’t alone; so many families here have similar stories, whether their names are Thenn, Wylde, Martell, or Targaryen.”

Daenerys felt a trickle on her face; she wasn’t sure whether it was blood or sweat.  In spite of the biting cold air, she now felt hot under all her layers.  “We must stand together,” she shouted.  “We must speak with one voice and demand change now!  Are you with me?”  The crowd roared and the chanting resumed.

As she stepped to the side of the stage for the next speaker to take the microphone, a reporter called out to her.  “Senator Targaryen!  Is it true that you’re running for president?”

***

King’s Landing, 2018 AC

Daenerys thrust the red folder at Jon.  “I don’t want this,” she bit out.  “Don’t you think you might be acting just little bit melodramatic?”

Jon glared at her a moment and then turned to leave the office, leaving her still holding the folder.  She closed her eyes and swallowed.  “Jon, wait,” she said.

He stopped, but didn’t turn around.  “I need to tell you that I’m sorry,” Daenerys said.  “I’m sorry that I lied to you and I’m very sorry about Doreah.”

Jon turned to eye her coldly.  “Sorry doesn’t matter.  Sorry doesn’t un-tell lies or mend broken bones, Daenerys.”

“I know that,” she sighed.  “But I needed to say it anyway.  This isn’t who we are, Jon.”

“It’s not,” he said, and then blew out a breath.  “If you really want to apologize, apologize with actions.  Words are wind.  Make things work with Trystane.  Accomplish the goals you had when you were running for office.  Be the woman who incited a slave revolt in Meereen.  Be the woman who fought for women’s rights in Vaes Dothrak.  Be the woman who climbed the Wall with me.  Be the woman I voted for.”

Daenerys nodded sadly.  “I will.  I promise you.  And I’m glad you’re helping Doreah.  No one in the Red Keep will go after her.  You have my word.  She deserves the kind of help you can give her.  I want to go see her, tell her I’m sorry, but…” she trailed off.

“But you can’t,” Jon finished for her.  “It would only make things worse.  Reporters would smell the blood in the water.”

“Right,” Daenerys said.

Jon smiled sadly.  “I’ll give her your regards.”  He turned and left the office.

Daenerys sat down at her desk and looked around disconsolately at her opulent office.  She felt defeated.  She was so tired.  With what felt like her last bit of strength, she lifted her head and turned her attention to the work on her desk.

***

“Don’t you just hate hospitals?” Arya heard a man’s voice say.  She glanced over at him for a moment and then turned her attention back to Doreah.

“What news outlet do you work for?” Arya replied casually.

The man sputtered a bit, startled.  “The KL Herald.  How did you know I’m a reporter?”

Arya gave him a fine smile.  “I can smell it.  Gas station coffee and desperation.”  She stepped closer to him and sniffed for effect, then looked down at his hand.  “And who else visits people in the hospital carrying little spiral bound notebooks?”

The reporter tried a different tack.  “Ned Dayne,” he said, extending his hand.  Arya took it, but didn’t offer her name.  “That’s Doreah Lohar, former Red Keep aide, right?  Has she done anything like this before?  Do you know why she quit her job?”

“Pleased to meet you, Ned,” she replied easily.  “Other than that, no comment.”

“Is she a friend of yours?” Ned asked.  “Are you here to pick her up?  I overheard she was ready to be discharged.”

“No comment,” Arya repeated.  “You can go, Ned.  It was nice talking to you.”

***

Robb stomped angrily around the office.  “The judge denied our motion.  We have 24 hours to turn over Chataya’s books to the district attorney.  What’s next?  Chataya is adamant that she doesn’t want to give them up.”

Jon looked thoughtful.  “Let’s have a look at that list.”

Robb handed over the list Sansa had compiled of each of Chataya’s clients.  Jon looked it over.

“Sansa made an interesting point yesterday,” Jon said.  “She said that this list could double as a who’s who of King’s Landing.  Naturally that won’t help us with the incorruptible Willas Tyrell, but he’s only the district attorney.  Everyone answers to someone, and unfortunately for Willas, he answers to Attorney General Edmure Tully.”

A knowing smile spread on Robb’s face, his earlier frustration melting away.  “A grasping, ambitious, political animal if there ever was one,” Robb said.  “No offence to my uncle, but that’s what he is.”

“Exactly,” Jon said, tapping the list.  “There’s a lot of power here.  And these people have a lot more to lose than Chataya if their dirty little secrets come out.  We don’t need to comply with a subpoena for a case that’s been dropped.”

“I’ll help you make the calls,” Robb said chuckling.  “You take A-M, I’ll call N-Z.”

It didn’t take long.  Within two hours of making the first call, the case against Chataya had been dismissed.  Robb invited the client to the office to wrap things up.

When Chataya arrived at the office, she hugged Jon and Robb both.  “Thank you so much, both of you.  Everyone here, truly.  I know it seems silly, and that most see no honor in brothel keeping, but it’s very important to me to maintain my clients’ anonymity.”

“I understand,” Jon said.  “But after this, it’s probably best if you retire from the business.  Willas Tyrell isn’t one for forgiving and forgetting.  He’ll come after you again if he can.”

Chataya sighed.  “I think you are right.  I am ready to move on from this.  It’s a nasty business sometimes.”

When Chataya took her leave, Jon collapsed onto the couch and threw his head back onto the cushioned back.  “This is fucking exhausting.  Remind me again why we do this?”

“I do this to make the world a better place and to help people,” Robb replied, laughing.  “You though, you just wanted to escape the Red Keep.”

“Fuck off Robb,” Jon said.

“Yes Robb, fuck off,” Arya yelled as she entered the office.  Doreah was behind her, bandage still on her head and left arm in a cast.

“Hi Doreah,” Jon said, getting up.  “Thanks for coming.”

“Your associate here didn’t make it seem like much of a choice,” Doreah replied.

“Sorry about that,” he said.  “Arya is… Arya.”  Arya snorted.

“What do you want, Jon?” Doreah asked.

“Can you give us the room?” Jon said to Robb and Arya.  Once they left, Jon motioned to a chair in front of his desk.  “Have a seat.  I asked Arya to bring you here so we can help you.”  He sat down behind the desk.  “I spoke with President Targaryen, and told her that you’re my client.  She’s told me that the Red Keep is not going to take any action against you, but I want to find out what you want.  That is, if you’ll let me represent you.  Pro bono of course.”

Doreah waited a moment before answering.  “Then you believe me,” she said.  “What changed your mind?”

“The president told me the truth,” he said.  _That’s technically true_ , he thought.  “She also asked me to apologize to you on her behalf.”

“You owe me an apology too,” she said.

Jon nodded.  “You’re right.  I’m sorry Doreah.  I let my friendship with the president affect my judgment.  That was a mistake.”

A half smile appeared on Doreah’s face.  “Yeah, she does that.”  She sighed.  “If I let you do this, what can you do for me?”

“That depends on what you want,” he said.  “What’s the endgame?  What’s your best outcome?  Do you want to go back to work at the Red Keep?  Do you want money?  Do you want to stay in King’s Landing?  You have options.”

Doreah swallowed and looked away to focus on the wall.  “I don’t want anything,” she said quietly.  “I have to…” she shook her head.  “I can’t tell you,” she finished in a whisper.

Jon reached across the desk and took her right hand.  “You can,” he said reassuringly.  “You don’t have to, but you can.  The more honest you are with me, the better I can do my job.  I really do want to help you, Doreah.”

She looked down.  “I can’t.  Not yet.”

“That’s fine,” Jon said.  “Take some time to think about it, and about what you want.”

She nodded.  Jon continued.  “The next issue is the media.  Arya called and told me a reporter showed up at the hospital.  He even tried to follow her, apparently.  He didn’t know much, so maybe the story will fizzle out.  But it might not.  I need to keep you out the public eye and away from reporters.  I’d like you stay with one of my associates for a while.  Is that okay?”

“Can I take my dog?” she asked.

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Jon said, pressing the intercom button on his desk phone and dialing an extension. 

“Yeah?” Sansa answered through the intercom.

“Can you come in for a minute?” Jon asked.

A moment later, Sansa appeared in the office.  “Sansa, do you mind hosting Doreah at your apartment for a few days?” Jon asked.  “She has a dog.”

Sansa smiled.  “That’s no problem.  Hers can play with Lady.  I must warn you though, Lady is a big dog.  Very gentle, but as big as a wolf.”

Doreah laughed.  “That’s fine.”

“Let’s go pick up your pup and get you settled in,” Sansa said, linking arms with her and walking towards the door.  “Do you like lemon cakes?  I’ll make us some lemon cakes.”

***

The next two days passed without incident.  Sansa regaled the team with details of her date with Willas, much to Jon’s consternation.  While everyone else thought it was either amusing or at least of no concern, Jon and Robb saw the potential for complications.

“What, afraid I’ll spill your secrets to him, Jon?” Sansa taunted.  “Trust me, when we’re together, your brooding face is the last thing on my mind.”  Even Sandor laughed at that.

“No,” Jon replied.  “I’m afraid you’ll spill our clients’ secrets.  I don’t have any secrets.”

“Bullshit,” she said.  “Anyway, you don’t need to worry about that.  I can handle Willas Tyrell.”

Everyone had their laptops and notes on Ryswell spread out on the conference room table.  Sam huffed in frustration as he typed.

“I’m not sure what else there is to be found this way,” Sam said.  “The northern records are not all digitized or online.  We also don’t know what kind of records Ryswell’s lawyer or Damon Dance-for-Me have on paper that we couldn’t access remotely.”

It was an unspoken rule at Jon Snow and Associates that no one used the word “hacking,” at least in regard to their own work.  But Jon noted that Sam was becoming quite adept at “accessing remotely” over the few days that he’d been on the team.  Jon thought that Sam had the potential to be a good investigator.

“Sam’s right,” Sansa said.  “I think I should go up north for a couple of days.  Dig through files at the provincial recorder’s office, visit the two lawyers’ offices, see what I can find.”  It went without saying that the two lawyers would not be present when Sansa “visited” them.  She would need backup, Jon thought.

“I agree,” Jon said.  “Robb and Sam, you’ll go with Sansa.  Arya will be here to check in on Doreah, and Sandor and I will keep up with the research here.”

“I’ll make the travel arrangements,” Robb said.

***

Tyrion’s blood was like ice as he walked through the Red Keep toward Daenerys’ office.  As much as he didn’t want to believe it, he didn’t see what alternatives there could be.  Doreah Lohar was blackmailing the president.  Which meant that _Jon Snow_ was blackmailing the president.  He had listened to the audio file three times because the first time, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and the second time, he couldn’t believe that his friend would do this.

The president had assured Tyrion that in spite what he may have overheard after leaving her office that night, she and Jon had come to a détente of sorts after their argument.  _“No, not everything is resolved, but we came to an understanding.  A rapprochement, if you will.  You can sheathe your blade, my Lord Hand,”_ she had quipped.  It appeared now to Tyrion that any ceasefire that had been negotiated was at an end.

“Madame President,” he said as he entered the office.  “I received a package in my personal mail.  You need to listen to this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert! It might seem obvious, but Jon and Doreah didn't send Tyrion the package. The conflict between Jon and Daenerys is far from resolved, but that's not his style. The likely culprit will be revealed next chapter and we'll find out what's on the audio file.


	4. Maybe The Sun's Light Will Be Dim, And It Won't Matter Anyhow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys pays a visit.  Tyrion prepares for battle.  Trystane sets terms.  Sansa makes a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is borrowed from Juice Newton's "Angel of the Morning." You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN). (https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).

 

Chapter 4

“Maybe the sun’s light will be dim, and it won’t matter anyhow.”

 

Jon had just arrived home after dropping Sam, Robb, and Sansa off at the airport when he heard a knock at the door.  Checking the peephole, he unlocked and opened the door for the last visitor he could have expected.

“Why are you here, Daenerys?” Jon said.

Daenerys motioned for her guards to wait in the hallway.

“May I come in?” she asked.

Jon stepped aside and waved her in.  Both guards folded their hands and stood against the wall, seemingly uninterested in their president’s late-night outing.  He shut the door and locked it.

Daenerys pulled a flash drive out of her elegant bone white Prada handbag.  Jon noted that it was as lovely as it had been two years ago when he had given it to her.

“Tyrion received this in his personal mail,” she said, passing the flash drive to him.  “It was in an unmarked package.  This was the only thing inside.  You need to listen to it.”

Jon walked over to his laptop sitting on the coffee table and plugged the flash drive in, copying the contents to his hard drive by habit.  The drive contained a single audio file and Jon double clicked on it to start playing it.

_“Avy jorrāelan, ñuhys dārilaros,”_ Daenerys moaned through the laptop speakers.  There was a moment of unidentifiable murmuring followed by fabric rustling and more moaning.  “ _Gods, fuck!  Right there, oh gods, just like that_ ,” she continued.  Obscene slurping noises were audible.  Then more moaning.  “ _Please, gods, don’t stop_.”  More slurping, wetter sounding this time.  “ _Ñuhys dārilaros,”_ she said again, voice trembling _._ The moaning intensified and at this point drowned out the slurping noises.  Finally, there was an unholy wail.  The audio ended abruptly.

Jon slammed the lid of the laptop closed and jumped back from it, breathing hard.  He tried to speak, but no words came out.

“I’m sure you remember what I said next,” Daenerys said.

Jon nodded and took a ragged breath.  “ _Jon_ ,” he said.

“Mm hmm.  Screamed it, more like,” Daenerys said.  She disconnected the flash drive from the laptop and dropped in back into her bag.  She blew out a breath and sat on the couch.  Jon began pacing the room.

“Who sent this to Tyrion?” Jon asked.

Daenerys made a sound that tried to be a laugh, but wasn’t quite.  “Tyrion thinks it was _you_.”

“ _What?_ ” Jon asked, incredulous.

“If you relax and sit down a moment, you could probably work it out for yourself,” Daenerys said calmly.  “Naturally, he thinks that the slurping person is the recording is Doreah.  He thinks that she’s blackmailing me.  Which means that you’re blackmailing me.”

“Maybe for two seconds until you set him straight, obviously,” he said.

“I did no such thing,” she replied.  “Think for a moment, Jon.”

Jon exhaled slowly, realization coming upon him.  “Fuck.  Right.  Whoever made this recording has the rest of it.  It didn’t just cut off where it did magically.  They’ve had this for two years.  Whoever sent this to Tyrion _knows_.”

“Exactly,” she said.  “If this recording as it is gets out and it’s believed to be Doreah, that’s an embarrassing scandal.  I could get past it, but it would be bad.  But if it’s later revealed to be a recording of me with _the_ Jon Snow, the White Wolf, national hero, my campaign manager, and former communications director, well that’s something very different.  I can’t come back from that.  I don’t even think that you could fix that for me.”

Jon scoffed.  “I could if it weren’t me on the recording.  But no, as things are, you’re right.”  He went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of 2014 Dornish red into two handmade Myrish wine glasses.  He took a large drink from one and handed Daenerys the other.

“I can’t trust anyone in the Red Keep with this,” Daenerys said, taking a sip of wine.  “As loyal as Tyrion is to me, Jaime is still his brother.  I can’t rule out the possibility that Jaime’s people made this recording.”

“If Jaime had this, why didn’t he use it?” Jon asked.

“It was too late,” Daenerys said.  “The primary election had just been held.  We got more votes than Stannis and Jaime both, but only because they split the moderate vote.  Our best chance to win in the general election was to bring House Lannister onto the ticket.  I wasn’t sure if he’d agree, but…”

“I told you we could leverage the bad blood between the Lannisters and the Baratheons to convince him.  Robert and Cersei’s divorce scandal was in full swing.  And if not, there was always the nuclear option,” Jon finished.  “The day after this recording was made, Jaime agreed to be your running mate.  The timing might be a coincidence, but…”

“But it might not be,” Daenerys said.  “We have to find out who made the recording and what they want.  Until then, I can’t trust anyone with the truth.  Which means…”  She trailed off and looked at Jon miserably.

“You have to let Tyrion think that you think I’m blackmailing you,” Jon said. 

“He’s going to want us to wage all-out war on you, Jon,” she said quietly.

“You’ll have to,” Jon said.  “In fact, you should be the one to insist on it.  We need to buy time to find out who did this.  Causing a scandal isn’t the endgame for whoever it is.  If they wanted to do that, they could just release the recording.  Whoever sent this is sending you a message.  This isn’t the end of it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Daenerys said.

“You have to,” Jon repeated.  “Hit me with everything you have.  I can handle it, Dany.”

Daenerys smiled sadly.  “Dany?  It’s been awhile since you called me that.” 

Jon smiled back at her and reached for her hand.  “You’re always Dany to me.”

She looked at her hand in his.  “Are you sure?  Because you never asked me to choose you.  You always find some reason to push me away.”

“There was always a good reason,” Jon said.

“Good for who?” she asked, not expecting or getting an answer.  She took a deep breath.  “It might be some time before I can see you again.  I basically had to sneak out of the Red Keep to come here tonight.”

Jon nodded.  Daenerys squeezed his hand.  “We have to go to war tomorrow, but tonight…” Dany trailed off.  Desperate want written plainly on her face, her eyes locked on Jon’s.

Jon pulled her onto his lap and sealed his mouth over hers.  Winding an arm around her and weaving her hair between his fingers, he poured months of longing into a single desperate kiss that seemed to go on forever.  When they parted for breath, Jon buried his face against Daenerys’ neck.

“Gods, Dany,” he gasped.  “I’ve missed you so damned much.”  He left a trail of open-mouth kisses along her throat and breathed hard against her ear.  “Every day I’m not holding you, it’s like I’m drowning in slow motion.”  She covered one side of his face with hot kisses and held his other cheek tenderly while looking into his eyes.

“You’re holding me now,” she said softly.

“Dany,” he rasped.  “I can’t breathe without you.  How do I keep living without breathing?  The only thing I can think of is that I’m holding onto some shred of hope that you’ll be mine someday, and it’s only just enough to keep going.”

He felt the hot tears on her face.  “No, please, Dany.  Don’t cry, I can’t bear it.  Please.”  He kissed away every tear and pressed his mouth to hers again.  Their words forgotten, tongues battled and teeth clashed until she gasped and pressed her whole body against his.

He knew in the back of his mind that he should be focusing on the recording, planning for the war and the scandal to come, doing anything but pulling Daenerys’ shirt off and burying his face between her breasts.  He knew it, but the importance of those things had been wiped out until they were just ghosts of ideas, and the only thing that mattered was the feel of her heartbeat against his face.

Any fixer knows that sometimes you have no choice but to lean into a bad decision.  Sometimes circumstances force your hand.  The morning was for regrets.  He could hate himself tomorrow.  He would wait until the sun showed itself to prepare for the backlash.  The only thing possible to do now was unhook Daenerys’ bra and wrap his lips around her pert pink nipple and feel the heat of her other breast in his hand.  That’s what he told himself anyway, until he heard her whisper in his ear.

“Take me to bed.  Love me, Jon.”  He wasted no time lifting her slight body from the couch and she wrapped her legs around his waist.  Her skirt already lifted up to her hips, he could feel her heat against him through his shirt.

When he reached his bedroom and placed her on his bed, Jon wasted no time pulling off her skirt and sliding the white scrap of lace down her the milky white skin of her legs.  Lifting her panties to his face, he inhaled deeply while she watched, her gaze heated.  Jon thought that through some impossible denial of the operation of the electromagnetic spectrum, he was somehow able to see ultraviolet light smoldering in her eyes.  He took a long moment to just look at her.

“What are you doing,” she asked desperately.

“I’m remembering you,” he said.  He took his time.  He knew he would need this, for later.  _The long night_ , he thought.  _Maybe just a few more seconds of remembering her lying naked on my bed will get me through the night that never ends._

The moment ended, and he buried his face between her smooth pale thighs.  He teased and licked, her soft moans and desperate pleas in High Valyrian a blanket to smother his troubled thoughts.  When she let out a wail to shame the one on the recording, all reasoned thoughts exited his mind.

He made his way up her body and for that moment, she belonged to him exclusively.  When he pushed into her, her relief was audible.  Her noises and her heat against him made him reckless and desperate.  He gripped her wrists into his hand and pounded into her.  She lifted her hips to match his rhythm and her cries of pleasure were like fire in his blood.

When he felt she was nearly ready to break, he spoke into her ear with a command that couldn’t be denied.

“Say my name,” he demanded.

“Jon,” she wailed.  He felt her shudder and convulse around him as he himself succumbed, in that same moment.

***

As Dany ghosted her fingers along Jon’s back, he closed his eyes.  Nearly asleep, he sat up in bed abruptly when a thought suddenly occurred to him.

“They want you to lie,” Jon said, breathing hard, fully awake.  “The recording.  They want you to lie about it, under oath.  Commit perjury, say it’s Doreah or Trystane or anyone else, doesn’t matter who.”

“Who?” Daenerys asked breathlessly, sitting up.

“Whoever made the recording didn’t use it,” Jon said in a rush.  “They wanted you to be elected.  They waited until this incident with Doreah to make their move.  They didn’t want you to lose or be embroiled in a scandal.  They want something they could use to impeach you.  They want to _own_ you, not defeat you.”

“Ryswell,” Dany said, understanding.

“You’re the one she wants to depose,” Jon said.  “Or whoever it is who’s pulling her strings.  I’m not so sure that this is Bolton anymore.  He’s not subtle like this.  Not his style.  He’s a sledgehammer, not a scalpel.”

Daenerys was quiet a long moment.  “It still could be him.  It could be anyone.  Gods, I wish there was someone in the Red Keep I can trust.”

“There is, actually,” Jon said.  He winced.  “You’re not going to like it, but you should go to Trystane with this.  He might be able to get information we can’t.  Plus, depending on how this plays out, you might need him to Tammy Wynette with you and the press.  If that becomes necessary, it would be much better if he hears about it from you, in advance, rather than learning from the audio getting leaked on the internet.”

“Tammy Wynette?” Daenerys asked.

“Stand By Your Man,” Jon explained.

“I know, I just didn’t realize it could be used as a verb,” she said, collapsing on the bed.  “For fuck’s sake, Jon.  You think I can trust _Trystane_ with this?  Are you sure you don’t have Targaryen blood, because that’s crazy.”

“I’m very sure that I don’t,” Jon said.  “And it’s not so crazy.  Whatever issues you two have, he doesn’t want his wife of twelve years and the mother of his children to get impeached.  It’s not like he doesn’t already know about us.”

“I’m not playing the recording for him,” Daenerys huffed.

Jon laughed.  “No, I wouldn’t recommend that.”

Daenerys groaned and got up.  She glanced out the window where the sky was growing pale.  She regarded the pre-dawn skyline of King’s Landing pensively.  “I suppose I have to go back to the Red Keep now.”

“Right,” Jon agreed.  “You want to beat the press corps there.  Can’t have them asking Missandei for the tick-tock and have her not even know where you are.”

Daenerys looked at him sadly for a few moments.  “I love you, Jon.”  She sounded so much younger than her 32 years.  She leaned over and touched his cheek.  It felt like a brand on his skin.

“ _Avy jorrāelan, ñuha dāria.”_

Daenerys smiled and left the room.  When Jon heard the door click shut behind her, he checked the clock on his nightstand and groaned.  He reached for his phone and called Robb.  “While you’re up there, there’s one more thing I need you to look into.”

***

Tyrion slapped six red folders on the long table in the small council chamber.  The small council was absent at the moment; only Daenerys, Tyrion, Varys, and Willas were present.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Tyrell,” Tyrion said.  “I think your insight here will be quite valuable given your experience with the people we’re discussing.”

“It’s always my pleasure to assist the Red Keep,” Willas responded amiably.

Tyrion cleared his throat.  “This group here is far from innocent,” Tyrion said.  He opened the first folder.  “Arya Stark.  Former ‘Faceless Man’ of the House of Black and White, a black-hat hacker outfit in Braavos.  I still have my people piecing together her history with them, but what we already have indicates she was directly involved in dozens of data breaches of corporate and government computer systems around the world.”

“Sandor Clegane.  I requested his military record, and at least half is redacted.  Even telling the director of the Night’s Watch it was for the president didn’t help.  Apparently even Director Mormont isn’t privy to most of Clegane’s activities.  From what is not redacted, it’s clear that this is a man that you would not want to come across in a dark alley.”

“Sansa Stark.  Former wife of Provincial Representative Petyr Baelish of the Vale.  Their marriage was ended quite dramatically after he did this to her face.”  Tyrion slid a photo out of the folder.  Daenerys grimaced and Willas paled.  “After taking a tire iron to both of his knee caps and turning his face unrecognizable, Jon Snow acquired the services of the Vale’s most ruthless divorce attorneys, Royce and Waynwood, to represent her in the divorce.  All the dirty details of the case are here in the file.”

“Robb Stark.  Following the terrorist attack that killed his parents, Governor Eddard Stark and Catelyn Stark, as well as his youngest brother Rickon, Robb reportedly had a nervous breakdown and spent two months in a mental hospital on the Isle of Faces.”

Tyrion opened a slim folder which contained only a photo.  “Samwell Tarly.  JSA’s newest associate.”

“Why isn’t there anything in the file?” Willas asked.

“Good question,” Tyrion said.  “From what our best researchers can find, Samwell Tarly did not exist before 2014.  He’s a ghost.”

Tyrion opened the last folder.  “And finally, we have Jon Snow, the ‘White Wolf.’  Born to Lyanna Snow and unknown father at Prince’s Pass, Dorne in 1986.  Information on Lyanna Snow is non-existent.  No records of her at all other than the birth certificate.  Jon grew up in Winterfell with Lyanna mainly absent and the Starks served as his surrogate family.  He got involved with the activist group Refugee Legal Action Project as their public relations manager and became famous after saving then-Senator Targaryen’s life.  Basically, he might as well be Baelor the Blessed come again.  The worst we can do is call him a bastard.”

“Well that should hurt his feelings,” Daenerys dead-panned.  “Is this the best photo you have of him?”

“This is serious, Madame President,” Tyrion said.  “This is a dangerous group of people and they’re after you.”

“I know,” she sighed.  “No assault charge for the tire iron incident?”

“Nope,” Tyrion said.  “No police report was ever filed.  Hospital records say he claimed to have fallen down a flight of stairs.  I only know about the tire iron because Jon told me himself.  Statute of limitations has already run.  It wouldn’t help us in the court of public opinion anyway.”

“Work on Tarly,” Varys said.  “There’s got to be something there.  That looks like the weakest link.”

There were murmurs of agreement and then Willas spoke up.  “You people don’t get it.  JSA has no weak links.  These people?  Jon _fixed_ them.  They’re loyal to him.  They might as well all be his family.  We need more, something better, something we can work with.”

Daenerys got up.  “Keep looking, gentlemen.  Good meeting.”

“Yes, Madame President.”

***

Daenerys knew it had to be done, but she entered the family quarters in the Maidenvault with dread.  Although renovated and modernized from its historic purpose as a literal “maiden vault” to a residence for the president’s family, this was for all intents and purposes Trystane’s domain.  She mainly kept to her own quarters set up near her office and even while enjoying “family time” she would do so in other areas of the keep.

She didn’t see the children.  _They must still be playing in the gardens_ , she thought with relief.  She heard the faint sound of a television coming from the sitting room.

“Daenerys,” Trystane greeted her, briefly taking his eyes off the WCN news broadcast he was watching.  “To whom do I owe the pleasure of a presidential visit?”

She decided against the small talk and pointless verbal sparring that usually preceded her conversations with Trystane and decided to just rip the band-aid off.

“Someone is trying to blackmail me.  They made a recording of me and they’re trying to blackmail me,” she said.

Trystane smirked.  “I heard something about that.  You and some Lysene aide.  Former aide?  Not very nice of your paramour to do that.  Not such a white wolf I suppose.”

“It’s not the Lysene aide,” Daenerys responded exasperated.  “She doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

She had Trystane’s attention then.  “Ah, then it is serious.  And you didn’t tell Tyrion.  That’s very sweet, Daenerys.  Almost romantic, that you trust me with this and not your advisors.  Who advised that, I wonder.  Your wolf?  And co-star on the recording, presumably.”

“Yes,” she hissed.  Trystane’s blasé tone never failed to aggravate her.  She reigned in her temper and continued in a measured tone.  “I came to ask if you would help me.  You have contacts who might have information that I don’t necessarily have access to.  I thought that if this recording comes out, it would be best if you knew in advance and heard it from me directly.”

“Are you going to play the recording for me?” he teased.

“I’d rather not,” she replied evenly.

“You don’t just want my contacts, though.  You want me to sing ‘Stand By Your Man’ for the press.  Somehow I don’t think this is what old Aerys had in mind when he arranged our union.”

“What in the seven hells with these country music references,” Daenerys muttered.

Trystane doubled over laughing.  “Wait, I should practice.  Does Nym still have that karaoke machine?”

“Trystane,” she said warningly.

“Sorry,” he said, still laughing a little.  “It’s just too funny, with all your judgmental comments over the years about my ‘friendships’ with various ladies, all your damnable righteous outrage, that you are the one embroiled in not one, but two potential sex scandals.”

She couldn’t help it.  She glared at him menacingly.

Trystane’s face turned serious.  “I could sing this song for you, Daenerys.  But you’re going to have to give me something.  If you want me to Tammy Wynette with you, you’re going to have to Tammy Wynette with me.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean no more sex scandals,” he replied.  “Your man stands by you, and you stand by your man.  No doubt your paramour advised the same.  Or former paramour, I should say, if you want me to do this.”

“And you?  Are you going to do the same?” Daenerys asked.

“I don’t see the need,” he replied breezily.  “You’re the one asking for a favor.  And _I’m_ discreet.  Twelve years of no sex scandals.  You, though?  Our poor children, what would they think?”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes.  “Don’t pretend this is about the children.”

“It is, though,” Trystane countered.  “Partially, at least.  I have no desire for embarrassment to our family.  I know you don’t care what they think, but…”

Daenerys cut him off, venom in her voice.  “How dare you suggest I don’t care about Nym and Egg!  This is just a power play for you, a game.  You don’t really care.”  She shook her head angrily.  “As if our marriage depended on fidelity!  That’s absurd, coming from you.”

Trystane leaned forward and eyed her calculatingly.  “Do you want my help or not?  Do we have an arrangement?”

Daenerys’ nostrils flared.  “Yes,” she hissed.

Trystane motioned for her to wait, and then pulled his phone out of his pocket and fired off a text message.  Daenerys waited for a tense moment.  The phone rang.  “Yeah,” Trystane said.  He listened for a few minutes without saying anything.  “Thanks, Uncle Oberyn.”

Trystane put the phone away.  “I know who’s blackmailing you,” he said.

***

Sansa had spent the day digging through files at the province recorder’s office and found nothing.  With a few honeyed words and a few thousand dragons, she had landed herself a new job as the night janitor at Damon Dance-for-Me’s dismal law office in a strip mall on the outskirts of the Dreadfort.

Janitorial work completed, because details are important, she turned her attention to Damon’s desk.  They already had his phone records from earlier research, but this statement was the current one, recently opened and placed in Damon’s inbox by a secretary.  She consulted a list of numbers on her phone compiled from his earlier phone bills.  On the first page, it seemed like more of the same.

Sansa turned the page and her blood ran cold.  It had been months since she had needed to tell herself this.  _Panic raises the blood pressure.  It takes_ low _blood pressure to faint.  It’s just work.  This is boring.  He’s not here._ The calming reassurance did its work and she took a deep breath and counted to ten.  When she reached ten, she pulled her phone from her janitor’s apron.

“Yeah, Sansa,” Jon said.

“It’s not Bolton,” she said, her voice shakier than she wanted it to come out.  “I have the newest phone records here at Damon Dance for Me’s.  Dozens of calls in the last month.  Not Bolton.  It’s _his_ number.  Petyr Baelish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments. They keep this story going! Good or bad, I want to hear it, especially if you hate a character. Let me know <3


	5. It's Enough To Drive You Crazy If You Let It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trystane reveals what House Martell knows about the blackmailer.  Sansa finds a familiar face in Winterfell.  Jon meets with a potential client and unveils a shocking secret.  Doreah has a crisis of conscience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s title is borrowed from “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton.  You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).
> 
> ***Chapter warnings for references to rape and for violence.***
> 
> Tywin Lannister said it best in A Storm of Swords.  “When your enemies defy you, you must serve them steel and fire.  When they go to their knees, however, you must help them back to their feet.  Elsewise no man will ever bend the knee to you.”

 

 

Chapter 5

“It’s enough to drive you crazy if you let it.”

 

“Baelish?” Daenerys asked shrilly, standing over him.  “How long have you known?”

Trystane’s earlier aggression and condescending manner had disappeared as if a switch had been flipped.  He supposed in a way, one had.  With Daenerys’ acquiescence to his father’s and Oberyn’s terms, there wasn’t any further point to antagonizing her.  It would be counter-productive and he didn’t want to.

“Before you start screaming at me, I didn’t know until just now,” Trystane said.  “Earlier today, Oberyn told me that Baelish had approached him.  Baelish played the recording for him – the whole recording, not just what Tyrion got.  He didn’t show his whole hand, but he made it clear that he wanted to ally with House Martell to bring down Snow and the Starks.  I’m sure you already know why he holds a grudge against them.”

Daenerys was still seething, but she was listening.  Trystane took that as a promising development.  “Did Oberyn agree to this arrangement?” Daenerys asked.

“No,” Trystane replied.  “Of course not.  He was non-committal.  He wanted to get as much information as he could without tipping Baelish off.  He said he would speak with my father and they’d consider it.”

Daenerys was pale and tense, but her voice remained calm.  “I take it that they are not considering it.  At least, not anymore.”

Trystane shook his head.  “They’re not.  They weren’t.  But you must realize that Oberyn and my father heard the whole recording.  As you may recall, it wasn’t just sex noises Baelish recorded that night.  They’re worried about our alliance.  They think that if you’re in love with Snow, you might just say damn the consequences and file for divorce.  Obviously, they do not want that to happen.”  Daenerys looked to the side and sighed.  He could tell that she had considered that exact course of action.

Despite that, Daenerys shook her head and laughed bitterly.  “They don’t need to worry about that.  I’m not some dimwitted maiden.  I considered no such thing.”

Trystane ignored her blatant lie and continued.  “All Oberyn told me this earlier was that if I wanted the identity of the blackmailer and the full recording, I had to get you in line and make sure you were committed to our alliance.  In Dorne, such things don’t usually merit even a batted eyelash, but in our current position here, we have to consider the possible reactions of people who aren’t so open-minded.”

Daenerys let out a long, weary breath and visibly deflated as her anger dissipated.  He was hopeful that meant that she at least recognized that he wasn’t her enemy.  “Thank you, Trystane,” she said dully.

He heaved a sigh.  “For what it’s worth, and I expect you won’t believe this, but I am sorry.  This isn’t how I would have things be between us, if it were up to me.  But it’s not.”

Daenerys didn’t react and looked lost in her thoughts.  Trystane regarded her sympathetically.  “I think this is for the best, Daenerys,” he said quietly.  “It’s good politically and it’s good for our family.  It doesn’t have to be terrible.”  She cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at him and he laughed a little.

“I’m serious,” he said.  “It wasn’t always bad.  It doesn’t have to be now.  However you feel about Snow, I don’t think he really knows the real you.  I think all he really sees is Daenerys the hero, Daenerys the politician, Daenerys the freedom fighter.  You are all those things, but that isn’t all.  I doubt your ovaries actually clank.”

She scoffed and crossed her arms defensively.  “What do you know?  Perhaps they do.”

Trystane laughed.  “Maybe so.  But I know what’s underneath that steel shell.  I remember the girl who trembled, she was so frightened of Aerys.  Her own father.  Her idealism and her dreams, but always tamped down by fear of that tyrant.  When I saw how you were with him when we met, how scared you were, I told my father that I didn’t want to go through with it.  Sure, there are political marriages nowadays but not against the bride’s will.  It was 2006 AC, not 206.  He convinced me that you’d be better off away from Aerys and that I could protect you from him.  As fierce as you are now, you don’t need my protection.  But it wasn’t always like that.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Trystane,” she said.  “But we’re different now.  Aerys is dead.  And I don’t need your protection or anyone’s.  I’m not some naïve 20-year-old girl.”

“I know that,” he replied.  “What I’m saying is that you don’t have to pretend.  Not with me, at least.  Save your brave face for the press.  I suspect it will be necessary soon enough.  I said I’d stand by you, and I will.”

Trystane could see the last bit of Daenerys’ angry resolve crack away.  She collapsed onto the couch and leaned into him.  He put his arms around her and stroked her hair.  They stayed like that for a while, until Trystane realized she’d fallen asleep.

***

Sansa slapped angrily at her phone when the alarm blared.  She felt like she had only slept long enough to feel like a truck had run over her.  She looked around the dreary hotel room and saw Winterfell’s pale morning light peeking through the slim opening in the blackout drapes.  At least she was too tired to feel afraid now.

She hurried to get dressed and met Robb and Sam in the hotel lobby for a thoroughly mediocre continental breakfast of muffins and burnt coffee.

“Now that we know who were dealing with, I think that you two should return to King’s Landing without me and get started running everything we can on Baelish,” Sansa said.  “I will stay here until tonight so I can go back to the recorder’s and clerk’s offices and look into possible connections with Baelish and Ryswell.  I don’t know if there’s anything there, but now that we have another name to run, it’s worth another look.”

Robb looked skeptical.  “You shouldn’t be alone.  I should be here to back you up.”

Sansa shook her head.  “Jon needs you back at the office.  I can take care of myself.  I’m not doing anything risky today.  It’s just government records.  One person can do that.  I’ll be on the last flight out of Winterfell tonight.”

Robb relented.  “If there’s any trouble, I want you to call me right away.  And Bran’s here, if anything happens.  Stay in touch.  Text me every hour at least.”

Sansa got up and hugged her brother and then Sam, surprising him.  “I’ll text you,” she told Robb.  “See you tonight.”

The recorder’s office wasn’t a complete dead end this time.  She found that Baelish held several small properties in the North, and that he had recently transferred the title for one to one of Ramsey’s known associates.  By the time the government offices closed for the day, Sansa was more than ready to go home.

_Home_ , she thought.  Home was King’s Landing now.  It would never be Winterfell again.  She still didn’t feel the cold the way a southerner would, but as she looked around, Winterfell seemed strange to her.  She didn’t belong here anymore.  She pulled her coat around her as she headed down the empty sidewalk towards her rented car.

“Hello, Sansa,” she heard a voice say behind her.  That voice.  She resisted the urge to run on the icy sidewalk and turned to face the man she’d hoped to never see again.

***

Jon had been staring at his computer screen for several hours ignoring the strain in his eyes when he heard the bell indicating a visitor in the front office.  Jon had never seen the need to employ a receptionist, but had a desk and bell set up in front nonetheless.  He went out to meet the visitor, resentfully abandoning the work on his desk.  When he saw who the visitor was, he grew even more resentful.

Jon nodded politely.  “Mr. Martell,” he said evenly.

“Mr. Snow,” Oberyn replied with a smile.  “I regret imposing on you without an appointment.  I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Jon said.  “Why don’t you come into my office so we can talk?”

As Oberyn followed Jon to his office, Jon tried to quickly consider what could possibly bring Oberyn Martell to his office of all places.  Daenerys’ brief email that morning had confirmed the connection between the Ryswell case and the recording, and that Baelish was behind both.  It had also confirmed his suspicions about what Trystane would ask for in exchange for his cooperation.  _At least it wasn’t for nothing_ , he thought.  They had the full recording now and had a better idea about what Baelish was up to.  Jon assumed that Oberyn was there to get another pound of flesh.  It had always been a risk, he knew.  The Martells were a dangerous family to cross, and he had certainly crossed them.

Jon motioned for Oberyn to have a seat and settled in behind his desk.  “How can I assist House Martell today, Oberyn?” Jon said.

Expecting the usual playful or perhaps mocking pleasantries, Oberyn surprised Jon by getting right to the point.  He placed a reddish brown expandable file pocket on the desk.  “My daughter Sarella is a sophomore at the Citadel.  Last week, she attended a fraternity party.  Something was slipped into her drink, and although some of her memories are hazy, she does clearly remember this person.”  He took a photo out of the file pocket and slid it across the desk.  Jon recognized the smug face in the photo immediately.  “Joffrey Baratheon,” Oberyn elaborated.  “Sarella couldn’t remember any of the others, but the examination at the hospital indicated that there were at least three rapists.  Joffrey is the only one she remembers having been on top of her.”

Jon placed a hand on the file pocket.  “May I?” he asked.  Oberyn nodded.  Jon removed the contents of the file.  There were several photos of Joffrey, his school records, Sarella’s medical records from the E.R. visit following the attack including photos of her injuries and lab results, and copies of an investigator’s report on Joffrey.  The report was basic; other than his driver’s license, credit report, address history, and family, there wasn’t much to it.  There was also a list containing six women’s names with their address and phone numbers.  Jon held up the last item.

“What’s this?” Jon asked.

“Those are the other women that we know of that Joffrey has raped besides Sarella,” Oberyn replied.  “Two of the girls left school, and another attempted suicide.  No charges were ever pursued by the district attorneys, either in the Reach or in the Westerlands.”

“I expect that his mother made sure of that,” Jon said.  “With these other women, she wouldn’t have had too much trouble with that.  But what was he thinking attacking your daughter?  Didn’t he know who she is?”

Oberyn laughed, but the barely contained rage underneath gave it a menacing quality.  “Sarella is very independent.  She goes by ‘Sarella Sand’ at school.  He probably had no idea.”

“That was quite a miscalculation on his part,” Jon observed.

“Yes,” Oberyn agreed.

Jon considered the papers spread on his desk a moment.  “This is usually when I ask what outcome you want.  But I suspect I already know what that is.”

Oberyn narrowed his eyes.  “I want him dead.  I want him to die screaming.  And I want Cersei Lannister to never know what ever became of him.”

Jon took a deep breath.  “I don’t know what it is you think we do here, but it’s not that.  I don’t do murder for hire.”

Oberyn spread his hands on the desk and eyed Jon deliberately.  “By my accounting, you owe House Martell a debt.  Do Snows pay their debts, or is that only Lannisters?”

_There it is_ , Jon thought.  _The pound of flesh._   “We do,” Jon said.  “But I think I can offer you something better than revenge.”

Oberyn scoffed.  “And what is that?”

“Justice,” Jon replied.  He got up and slid a painting aside to reveal a wall safe.  “Joffrey will go to prison for raping Sarella and the other six women on that list.”

“Cersei will just see to it that the charges are dropped or the judge bribed,” Oberyn said.  “He’ll never see one day in jail.”

“She won’t,” Jon countered.  “In fact, she’ll insist on justice being done.  She’ll say Joffrey needs to pay for what he’s done and that seven innocent women deserve justice for the pain inflicted on them.”  He opened the safe and removed a sealed manila envelope.  He slid it across the desk towards Oberyn.

“You say I owe House Martell a debt,” Jon said.  “That’s true enough.  This should settle it.”

Oberyn opened the envelope and pulled out the papers inside.  Jon sat back down and watched him review the envelope’s contents.  “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion,” he explained.  “I can’t think of a better use for this than locking up an entitled little prick like Joffrey Baratheon.  Or Joffrey Lannister, as it probably should be.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow.  “Is this true?”

Jon nodded.  “DNA test results and sworn declarations of both the phlebotomist and lab technician with original signatures.  Joffrey’s father is not Robert Baratheon.  It’s Jaime Lannister.”

Oberyn whistled.  “How long have you had this, Snow?”

“Since before the primary election,” Jon replied.  “Polling indicated we wouldn’t need it to defeat Lannister in the primary.  I intended to use it if we faced Jaime in the general election or if he didn’t want to join the ticket with Daenerys, but we didn’t end up needing it.  Jaime didn’t need much convincing, so I’ve been holding on to this in case it became useful someday.”

“I’m impressed, Snow,” Oberyn said.  “How did you get it?”

“After the explosion in Winterfell, politicians were falling all over themselves to be photographed donating blood, most with families in tow,” Jon replied casually.  “There had been rumors and whispers for years, mostly tabloid bullshit.  No one actually thought it was legitimate, though.”

“That’s pretty cold-blooded, White Wolf,” he said and tsked.  “Taking advantage of a national tragedy like that.  Especially considering the circumstances.”  Jon shrugged. 

“Did Daenerys and Trystane know you had this?” Oberyn asked.

“Of course,” Jon said.  “Trystane wanted to use it, but I convinced him that sometimes a carrot works better than a stick.”

Oberyn nodded.  “That’s so.  Sometimes.  You really think that this is preferable to doing things my way?”

“I do,” Jon said.  “Humiliation is a better payoff than martyrdom.  And I doubt Joffrey will fare well in prison.  Sex offenders aren’t so popular with murderers and drug dealers.  We can arrange things to ensure he receives the harshest possible sentence.  Your way only ensures that you receive satisfaction.  My way makes it possible for every decent person in Westeros to share in your vindication.”

“Fine.  We’ll try things your way.  What happens next?” Oberyn asked.

“I’ll email you a contract.  We’ll take care of everything else here.” Jon slid the papers back into the manila envelope.  “Consider it handled.”

***

Daenerys had woken up that morning in Trystane’s bed wearing the same clothes from the day before except her shoes.  Trystane was already gone.  She felt as though she’d been hit by a truck.  Every muscle in her body ached.  When she looked in the mirror, she saw her face was puffy like she’d cried herself to sleep, even though she hadn’t.  Even after sleeping nearly 12 hours, she still felt exhausted.

She found Nym in the sitting room where cable news had been eschewed for “Frozen.”  Nym was singing along to “Let it Go,” but stopped and ran over to Daenerys when she saw her.

“Mom, are you going to stay and watch ‘Frozen’ with me?” Nym asked hopefully.

“I wish I could, _zaldrītsos_ , but I have a lot of work waiting for me.  Where are your father and Egg?” Daenerys replied.

“They went to the game room to play Mario Kart.  I didn’t want to go because dad always hits me with a blue shell.”

_Yeah, me too_ , Daenerys thought.

Nym looked so disappointed, Daenerys couldn’t help but relent.  “I’ll stay and watch with you for a little bit.  Can you back it up a couple minutes?  I want to hear you sing the whole song.”

“You sing with me, Mom,” Nym said.

Daenerys laughed.  “Okay.  But you are a better singer than me.”

_I don't care what they're going to say.  Let the storm rage on.  The cold never bothered me anyway._

_***_

Tyrion was annoyed when Daenerys finally made it to her office.  Feeling better after spending some time with Nym, two cups of coffee, and a shower, she felt ready to tackle the day.  She felt like doing some real work, instead of dealing with the scandals and intrigue that seemed to waste so much of her time and energy.

“Where are we on the free college tuition bill?” she asked Tyrion.

“Still trying to get more sponsors,” Tyrion said.  “Everyone wants to put in a piece of pork for their district.  It keeps getting more and more expensive.”

“Make it a top priority,” Daenerys said.  “I don’t want any pork in the bill.  Make the PRs understand that.  This is important for every family in Westeros.  If we want this country’s economy to grow, then college can’t just be something for the privileged.  Every child should be able to get an education.”

“Understood,” Tyrion said, giving her a funny look.  “Aren’t we going to talk about the recording and what we’re going to do about Jon Snow?”

“We don’t need to do anything about him,” Daenerys said.  “He and Doreah didn’t send it.  It was Petyr Baelish.  Anyway, that’s not important right now.”

Tyrion gaped.  “Baelish?”

“College tuition.  Economic growth.  Our country’s future.” Daenerys said brusquely.  “Focus, Tyrion.”

She opened a binder with the bill and uncapped a highlighter.

“Right,” Tyrion said.  They got to work.

***

“Hello, Sansa,” he said.

Sansa eyed Petyr with open contempt.  “Was the language on the restraining order confusing to you, Petyr?  It’s in effect for three more years.”

Petyr laughed.  “How would I have even known you’d be here?  It’s a chance encounter; no fault of mine.”

“Then turn around and walk the other way before I call the police,” Sansa bit out.

“I’m not so sure you want to be calling the police, Sansa,” Petyr said breezily.  “I expect you don’t want to have to explain to them your trespassing at Damon Dance-for Me’s office last night.”

“Nice try,” Sansa said.  “Check with the janitorial company.  Nan will happily explain to you how she hired a nice lady from the Crownlands yesterday looking for a new start in the North.  She’ll even show you the copies she made of my driver’s license and social insurance card with my real name, and the tax and work eligibility forms I filled out.”

Petyr’s face twisted with anger.  “She won’t be so happy when I tell her that you stole from one of her clients.”

Sansa smirked.  “I stole nothing.  Check with your crooked lawyer friend and he’ll tell you that nothing is missing.  Except for the grime on his toilet that I cleaned off.  What a pig.”

“You can let your asshole boss and his little whore of a girlfriend know that they’re finished,” Petyr said venomously.

Sansa tsked.  “Petyr, this isn’t like you.  So obvious and angry.  Admit it, you’ve been outmaneuvered this time.  Your little tricks and plots haven’t worked.  So transparent.  Give up.”

Petyr shot her a final angry glare, then turned and walked away as the snow started to fall.  It was only when he had disappeared from view that Sansa realized she was shaking.

***

A few moments after Oberyn left, Arya threw open the door to Jon’s office.  She crossed her arms and leveled a glare at him.

“What was Oberyn Martell doing here?” she asked.

“Don’t you ever knock, Arya?  I’m trying to work,” Jon said.

“Answer the question,” she insisted.

Jon sighed dramatically.  “I’m fairly sure that’s still my name on the door.”

Arya narrowed her eyes and Jon decided it wasn’t worth fighting her.  It wasn't  like he could get any work done with her standing there shooting daggers at him.

“He’s a client,” Jon said.  “A new client.”

“A client?” Arya asked.

“Yes, Arya,” Jon said patronizingly.  “You know those people we do things for and they give me money so I can pay you?”

“What are we doing for him?” she asked.

“His daughter and six other women were raped by Joffrey Baratheon,” Jon said.  “We’re getting justice for them.”

“You didn’t,” Arya said, incredulous.  She pulled the manila envelope off the stack of papers and gripped it possessively.

“What else was I going to do with it?” Jon asked.

“But you were saving it for a special occasion!” Arya objected.

Jon leaned back in his chair.  “I sullied the precious honor of House Martell.  I had to make amends somehow.”

Arya leaned forward and stared at him.  “So are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Jon asked.

“You fucking the President of Westeros, idiot,” Arya said.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jon said.  “We were together, and now we’re not.  It’s over.”

“Why’s that?” Arya asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jon said, irritated.  “Let’s see.  She’s married.  To a fucking Martell.  She’s the President of Westeros, as you helpfully pointed out.  There’s a sex tape of us floating around out there.  Do you need more reasons?  I’m the last thing she needs right now.”

Arya eyed him speculatively.  “Is that what she thinks?”

“She’s a smart woman, so I imagine she does,” Jon said.  “Why are we talking about this?”

“What do we do here, Jon?” Arya asked.

“Manage crises,” Jon said.  “What do you think I’m trying to do right now?”

“You’re in a crisis,” Arya said.  “And I’m trying to help you.  What makes you think you’re not what Daenerys needs?  You think she needs that Martell shit biscuit?  If you love her so much, why don’t you fight for her?”

“What makes you think I love her?” Jon asked.

Arya rolled her eyes.  “How long have we known each other, Jon?”

Jon consulted his diamond-encrusted Rolex.  “Twenty-seven years, 3 months, 2 days, 12 hours, and 48 minutes.”

“The fuck, Jon?” Arya exclaimed.

“That’s how old you are,” Jon explained patiently.

“You’re a freak of nature,” Arya said.

“Don’t judge me just because I can do math,” he said.

Arya threw herself back in the reclining chair.  “Don’t fucking pivot, Jon.  You’re in love with Daenerys.  I’m not an idiot.  If you want her, you should tell her so.”

“It’s not that simple, Arya,” Jon said.  “You don’t understand.  She deserves better than some tabloid romance with a bastard Flea Bottom fixer.”

“Oh, I see,” Arya said.  “There it is.  You think because your parents weren’t married, then you’re not fit to lick the mud from her Manolos.”

“Louboutins,” Jon said absently.

“What?”

“She doesn’t like Manolo Blahniks,” he said.  “They hurt her feet.  She wears Christian Louboutins.”

“You dolt,” she said, exasperated.

The phone rang and Jon answered.  “Snow,” he said.  He listened for a moment and then put the call on speaker.

“I’m sorry, Jon, but I can’t do this anymore,” Doreah’s voice said through the phone’s speaker.  “I told Baelish he could just go ahead and release the photos he has of me.  I don’t care anymore.  I don’t want to hurt Daenerys and I don’t want to take advantage of you under false pretenses.  This is all my fault.  He told me to seduce her.  I didn’t want to; I believe in Daenerys.  She’s my hero.  I just didn’t know how bad it would get.  I didn’t want my family to see those photos.  I told Baelish I’m out.  I’m so sorry.”

“Where are you?” Jon asked.

“I went home,” Doreah said.  “I have to face the consequences alone.  This is my fault.”

Jon had jumped out of his chair and was pacing behind his desk.  “You’re never alone, Doreah!  Baelish is dangerous.  You don’t understand how dangerous!  I’m sending someone over there now.  Stay there, lock your door.”  He ended the call.

“Arya, who’s closest to Doreah’s?  We’re at least 25 minutes from there,” Jon asked frantically.

“If Sam went straight home after landing at KLX, he’s just a few blocks from her,” Arya said.

Jon called Sam and instructed him to go to Doreah’s. 

***

Sam knocked on the door several times, but there was no answer.  He tried calling Doreah’s cell and could hear it ringing inside, but she didn’t pick up.  After a minute of worrying, he tried the door.  It was unlocked.

Doreah was on the floor and blood was all around.  Sam raced over to her and saw she was still breathing faintly.  She struggled to speak but could not.  “Everything’s going to be okay, Doreah,” he said.  He saw the knife still buried in her throat and hesitated for a moment about what to do.  He summoned his courage and pulled out the knife.  Blood began to spurt copiously, and Sam placed his hand over the wound to staunch the flow of blood.  He struggled with his other hand to reach his phone.  He saw the light leave Doreah’s eyes.  The blood stopped flowing, and Sam knew she was gone.

He hesitated for a moment and dialed a number.  After giving a brief explanation, he listened.

“Do not call the police or anyone else,” Jon said.  “Don’t touch anything.  Don’t move, stay right there.  I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”


	6. Don't Bend, Don't Break.  Baby, Don't Back Down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JSA deals with the aftermath of Doreah’s murder and Sam has a secret.  Sansa has a change in travel plans and receives some interesting information.  Jon talks to Cersei about Joffrey’s misdeeds.  Daenerys is provoked.  Ned confronts Arya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s title is from “It’s My Life” by Bon Jovi.  You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).
> 
> Joffrey is Cersei’s youngest child (19), Tommen the middle child (26), and Myrcella the oldest (31).  
> 
> The NR-99 freeway roughly follows the old King’s Road from Castle Black to the Neck (RL-99 through the Riverlands, CL-99 in the Crownlands, and SL-99 in the Stormlands). The distance from Winterfell to King's Landing is approximately 1,250 miles (2,012 km).

 

 

Chapter 6

“Don’t Bend, Don’t Break.  Baby, Don’t Back Down”

 

Sandor was closer to Doreah’s, so after receiving Jon’s call, he was able to beat Jon and Arya there by five minutes.  Robb arrived a minute later.

“Where’s Sansa?” Jon asked.

Robb checked his watch.  “Her last text was 45 minutes ago and she had just arrived at the Winterfell Airport.  She won’t be back for at least two hours.”

Sam was still kneeling in the pool of blood, holding the hand of Doreah’s unbroken arm.  He appeared to be in shock and hadn’t said anything since they arrived.  Jon walked over to him, avoiding the blood.

“What did you touch?” Jon asked.

“We should call the police,” Sam said, voice trembling.

“Sam, I asked what you touched,” Jon repeated calmly.  “You know we can’t call the police.”

“And why not?” Robb asked.

Jon glared at him.  “We just can’t.  Stay focused and do as I say.  Sam.”

“I, uh, touched the door and the doorknob.  I touched Doreah.  I touched the…” his voice broke.  “The knife.  It was in her throat.  I thought if I… she was still breathing.  I pulled it out and blood went everywhere.”  He gasped for breath and his eyes were glassy.

“Sam, it’s okay,” Jon said comfortingly.  “You didn’t do anything wrong.  You wouldn’t have been able to save her.  It’s not your fault.  This is my fuck-up."  He pressed his palms against his face.  "I should have pressed her harder.  If I had known she was connected to Baelish, I would have had Sandor watching her 24/7.  Did you touch anything else?”

Sam shook his head.

“Robb, go to Sam’s place and get him some different clothes,” Jon said.  “These have blood all over them.  Shoes too.  Arya, bring me some wet washcloths.  I need to make sure Sam’s DNA or latent prints aren’t on Doreah’s skin.  Sandor, I need some garbage bags and rubber gloves if she has any.”

Sandor went to the kitchen and Arya and Robb just stood there watching Jon with shock.  Robb spoke first.  “Jon, I’m an officer of the court!  So are _you!_   Are you saying that you want us to tamper with evidence at a crime scene?  A _murder?_   Of our _client?”_

“No, I didn’t say that,” Jon said.  “I said to go get Sam some clean clothes and shoes.”

“If we do this, Doreah’s murder will never be solved,” Robb said, agitated.

“We already know who did this,” Jon said angrily.  “It was Petyr Baelish.”

“Why can’t we call the cops?” Arya asked.

“Sam’s DNA and fingerprints can’t be found at a crime scene,” Jon explained.  “If they are, the police will find out who he really is.”

“Who is he?” Arya and Robb asked at the same time.

“Right now, he’s our client.  But that’s not important right now,” Jon said impatiently.  “What’s important are washcloths, Arya, please.  Go get them.”

Robb and Arya still looked skeptical.  “Do you trust me?” Jon half-shouted.

“Yes,” Robb said after a moment.  “But when we’re finished here, you’re going to need to explain all this.”  Jon nodded and Robb left to retrieve the requested clothes.

When Arya returned with the washcloths, Jon took them and cleaned Doreah’s throat and hands.  He put the soiled cloths in a garbage bag.

“Arya, help me wipe down the door and doorknob.  We need to roll up this rug and get it down to Sandor’s car.  It won’t fit in mine.”

Once the cleaning was finished, Robb returned with Sam’s clothes.  Sam discarded his bloody clothes in the trash bag.  Sandor packed up Doreah’s cell phone and laptop.

“Sandor, can you check outside and look for cameras and anyone who might be paying too close attention?” Jon asked.  Sandor nodded and headed outside.

“Doreah would want someone to take care of her dog,” Jon said.  “Arya, can you get the dog ready to go?”  Arya returned a few minutes later with a black and white female lab pit mix with a purple collar and nametag that said “ _Khaleesi_ ” with Doreah’s phone number and address on it.  Khaleesi whined pitifully and Arya scratched the dog behind her ears.

Sam looked at Doreah disconsolately.  “We can’t just leave her here,” he said.

“We’ll call the police from a burner phone on the way to the office,” Jon said gently.  “They’ll take care of her.”

“Let’s go, Khaleesi,” Arya said.

***

Sansa glanced down at her hand on the steering wheel.  After two hours of driving, it was finally steady.  The northern countryside flashed by her as her rented Honda CRV sped down the NR-99 South away from Winterfell.  The road was free of ice, thank the gods, so Sansa nudged her foot down on the accelerator until the speedometer read 80 miles per hour.  She had a long way to go, and the farther away from Winterfell she got, the safer she felt.

She had texted Robb upon arriving at the Winterfell Airport for her 9:45 p.m. flight to KLX, the last of the night.  She had known immediately that something was wrong when she arrived at security screening and the Night’s Watch agent had sneered at her.  Her driver’s license had been examined, then agents removed everything from her carryon bag and pawed through her belongings as she watched helplessly.  Then she had been patted down.

“Why are you so nervous?” the agent had mockingly asked her as he pawed at her thighs.  “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to worry about.”

 _Petyr_ , she had thought.  _Has to be_.

After the thorough and humiliating public frisking, she had been escorted to wait in a small holding room near the security screening area.  Tears running down her face, she talked herself out of hyperventilating.  For once, she was grateful for all the experience she had in having to do this.  She did not want to think about what might happen if the agents had some cause to claim she was crazy and that they were justified in having her hospitalized against her will.  She folded her boarding pass until all that was visible was “King’s Landing.”  _I’m getting out of here_ , she thought.  _I’m going home_.

At 9:50 p.m., an agent unceremoniously said she was cleared to go.  Not that it mattered, since she had missed her flight.  Too afraid to spend the night in the nearly empty airport terminal and feeling strongly that she had to get the fuck out of Winterfell immediately, she went back to car rental counter and rented the CRV.

Making only brief stops for gas and energy drinks, she drove all night.  After nearly five hours of driving, the trees on the side of the NR-99 seemed to sway strangely and she knew she was too tired to continue.  She saw a sign: Moat Cailin 10 miles.

 _I can make it 10 more miles_ , she told herself.  It was after 3:00 a.m.  She turned the music up and started singing along loudly to Bon Jovi.  Perhaps not her usual jam, but it kept her awake.

She hadn’t called Robb or Bran.  She didn’t need help.  She was not a damsel in distress.  She was a 30-year-old woman, and she could drive 1,250 miles by herself if she had to.  _Petyr can’t break me.  Panic can’t break me.  Nothing can._

***

“Thanks for taking the time to meet with me, Ms. Lannister,” Jon said.

“Can you get to the point?  I have a benefit to prepare for tonight,” Cersei said haughtily. 

“No problem,” Jon replied.  “I need to talk with you about your son Joffrey’s many misdeeds.”

“How dare you!” Cersei hissed.  “Do you not recall that my brother is the Vice President of Westeros?”

“I recall very well,” Jon said amiably.  “I offered him the job myself.  Now, to the point, as you requested.”  Jon slapped four hospital photos of Sarella on his desk one by one.  Cersei looked at the photos with disinterest.

“These are photos taken by hospital personnel of Sarella Sand the night she was raped by your son.  Perhaps you don’t know, and I’m quite sure your imprudent son did not know, is that Sarella Sand is an alias of sorts.  Sarella’s legal name is Sarella Martell.  Daughter of Oberyn Martell.”

He had Cersei’s attention now.  Her arrogant expression slipped and her milky white skin had shifted to look more like non-fat milk in a soggy half-eaten bowl of cereal.

“You can’t prove anything,” Cersei said, trying to sound more authoritative than she clearly felt.  “The DA will never pursue charges this flimsy.  Especially not against the Vice President’s nephew.”

“Nephew.  Huh,” Jon said.  “I think you’re wrong about that.  Sarella was drugged – the test results found rohypnol in her system – but perhaps not enough, because she does clearly remember your son assaulting her.  The hospital also collected DNA evidence that will connect Joffrey with the rape.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Cersei said.  “You won’t be able to get a warrant to test Joffrey’s DNA against their sample, which was probably contaminated by all manner of stray material from the girl’s other male ‘companions.’”

“Sarella,” Jon said vehemently.

“What?” Cersei asked, confused.

“Her name is Sarella.  Not ‘the girl,’” Jon said.  “And I don’t need a warrant to collect your son’s DNA, because I already have it.”  He slapped down copies of the DNA test results and accompanying declarations.

Cersei made a face that almost looked like a wounded animal bearing its teeth.  “These aren’t original signatures.  They’re probably fake.”

Jon rolled his eyes.  “They’re _copies_ , Cersei.  That I made.  You think I would just hand you the original documents?”

Cersei didn’t say anything for a moment; she just stared at the DNA results, unseeing.

“You have a choice to make, and it’s an easy one,” Jon said.  “Joffrey is going to prison for raping Sarella Martell and six other women.  There’s nothing you can do about that.  Either you agree to cooperate with the prosecution, and these papers stay where they were before you came here today; or I send them to WCN, the KL Herald, the Lannisport Gazette, and any other journalist, blogger, or person in Westeros who might be interested.  Your credibility will be destroyed, and no district attorney or judge will care to listen to your threats or other bullshit.”

“You can’t do this,” Cersei said, deflated.  “It’s blackmail.”

“Wrong answer,” Jon said menacingly.  “The right one would be, ‘thank you, Jon, for talking to me about this first before just releasing the documents to the press.’  Because that would have saved me some time and I wouldn’t have to had to endure this unpleasant conversation.  I only gave you a choice because I like Jaime Lannister and because your other children, which I imagine are also his, are nice people.”

“You don’t have children, so you don’t understand,” Cersei said.  “Joffrey is my son.  My last baby.  It doesn’t matter what he’s done.  I have to protect him.”

“If you wanted to protect him, you should have made him with Robert Baratheon and not your twin brother,” Jon said.  “Maybe then he wouldn’t be a sick, violent rapist.  Incest tends to have side effects.  I understand your motherly concern, truly.  But Joffrey belongs in prison.  How would you feel if you saw pictures like these of Myrcella?  That’s the horrible situation in which he put the families of seven innocent young women, and you know it damn well because you were always the one to get him out of trouble before.  You just have the misfortune this time of crossing a family who could do something about it.”

“What guarantee do I have that you won’t just use this later the next time you want something from me?” Cersei asked.

“None,” Jon said.

Cersei looked defeated, but Jon knew better.  He knew regardless of what Cersei might say now, the moment she left his office, he would have made a powerful enemy.

“Fine,” she said.  “But I want him separated from the general population and I want you to see to it that the sentence imposed is not too drastic.”

“No,” Jon said. 

Cersei seethed.  “Do we have an understanding?” Jon asked threateningly.

“Yes.  Asshole,” Cersei bit out, and stormed out of the office.

***

Tyrion and Daenerys were buried in work on the free college tuition bill.  Daenerys had highlighted sections of the bill she wanted changed or cut; Tyrion had a whiteboard listing all the Provincial Representatives and what their expected vote on the bill would be.  It would be a very close vote if all the PR’s pet projects for their districts were removed, even with Daenerys’ high approval rating and the popularity of the proposal with the people.  Irri buzzed in on the intercom.

“Madame President, Director Mormont is here to see you,” Irri said.  “He says it’s urgent.”

At times like these, Daenerys missed Doreah a lot.  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.  “Which Director Mormont?”

“My apologies, Madame President,” Irri said.  “It’s National Security Director Jorah Mormont.”

 _Good,_ Daenerys thought.  She would rather hear bad news from her old friend than the Old Bear.  Jeor Mormont was an excellent Director of the Night’s Watch and had been under several administrations.  She tried not to hold him responsible for the previous administration’s immigration policies.  He had merely been following Stannis Baratheon’s orders.  He followed hers just as well.  Nonetheless, she would rather see Jorah.

“Send him in,” Daenerys said.  The door opened.  “Madame President,” Jorah greeted her respectfully.

“Tell me something good, Jorah,” Daenerys said lightly.

He immediately looked both sad and apologetic.  _Fuck_ , Daenerys thought.  Jorah handed her a folder with several photos inside.  She grimaced with disgust seeing the first one, and the others were just as bad.

“These photos were taken along the road from Yunkai to Meereen with drone aircraft,” Jorah explained.  “The children you see nailed to the crosses are slaves.  There are 163 in total.”

“There are only six photos here and a report,” Daenerys said.  “Where are the others?”

Jorah looked down.  “The photos are quite gruesome, Madame President.  I printed enough for you to see what was happening, but the rest…”

Daenerys cut him off.  “Get me the other 157 photos.  I would look on each of their faces,” she said implacably.

Jorah was contrite.  “Yes, Madame President.”  He sent a quick message to an assistant.  “I’ll have them brought up to you at once.  But we should talk about what action you want to take on this.”

“They’re sending a message,” Tyrion said.  “A slave revolt didn’t end slavery in Meereen, but it showed the masters they are not being ignored by the rest of the world.  For whatever reason, they’re clearly trying to provoke you into a response, Madame President.”

“Clearly,” Daenerys said.  “And they have.  Tyrion, call a meeting of the small council for tomorrow morning.  Jorah, I want military options ready to discuss at the meeting.  Whatever the so-called ‘Great Masters’ had in mind by committing this atrocity, they’ve badly miscalculated.  They’re going to learn that I don’t back down.”

***

“Arya Stark,” she heard a voice call behind her.  She turned around in the parking lot.

“Ned Dayne,” she said.  “How pleasant to see you again.”

Ned looked down at Khaleesi, puzzled.  “Is that Doreah Lohar’s dog?”

There was no point in lying.  She had been on her way to Pet’s Landing to pick up dog supplies, including a new name tag.  A tag with her own contact information – the dog had attached herself to Arya – might have given some credence to a claim that they were merely similar looking dogs, but with her having been at the hospital and now appearing with the dog, a lie was unlikely to convince the reporter.

“Yes,” she said brightly.  “I’m dog sitting for Doreah.  How did you know it’s Doreah’s dog?”

“You might be dog sitting a long time,” Ned said.  “Doreah was found dead in her apartment last night.”

Arya wasn’t much of an actress, but it was worth a shot.  “Doreah’s dead?  Oh gods.”  She knelt and hugged the dog.

“You don’t need to do that,” Ned said, eyeing her skeptically.  “It’s obvious that you already knew.  And I know that you and Doreah are not friends.  I’ve been investigating her story since I saw you at the hospital.  I saw her with the dog yesterday when she arrived at her home.  And I know you work for Jon Snow.  Doreah was his client, wasn’t she?”

“No comment,” Arya said.

“It’s quite suspicious that a Red Keep aide suddenly quits her job, wanders into traffic, disappears after being released from the hospital, and then the day after she returns home and is promptly murdered in her own home, Jon Snow mysteriously has her dog.”

“No comment,” Arya said.

“Fine,” Ned said.  “If you don’t want to comment on the story, how about a drink?”

“Alcohol isn’t going to loosen my tongue, Ned,” Arya replied.

Ned bit his lip.  “We’ll see about that.  So, is that a yes?”

“No comment.”

“How about this?” Ned said.  “I’ll be at the Silent Sisters’ Pub at ten.”  He smirked.  “You don’t have to ‘comment’ there if you don’t want to.”

***

Sansa slept for six hours at the plain but clean roadside motel on the outskirts of Moat Cailin.  The night clerk had eyed her strangely when she checked her driver’s license, but Sansa had been too tired to care.  She had taken the key card from the night clerk, bolted her door, texted Robb to let him know she was driving home and wouldn’t be back until late that night, and fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

After quickly showering and downing a cup of ashy-tasting motel room coffee, she checked out _.  Only 890 more miles to go_ , she thought as she walked to the car.

“Miss Stark,” a voice called behind her.  _The night clerk_ , Sansa thought.  She stopped in the parking lot next to her car and turned towards the clerk.

“Can I help you?” Sansa asked brusquely.

“Miss Stark, my name is Karsi,” she said.  “I’m the night clerk here, but I used to live in the Free Republic of Northern Westeros.  When I saw your name on your driver’s license, I felt that I had to speak with you.  Do you know of Mance Rayer?”

“Yes,” Sansa said tersely.  “Everyone does.  He murdered my parents and my brother.  Why are you talking to me about this?  What do you want?”

Karsi looked nervous, but she continued.  “Before I moved to Moat Cailin, I was part of the Northern Liberation Front.  I worked with Mance.  I wanted to tell you…”

Karsi was cut off when Sansa slammed her against the car and placed her hand around Karsi’s throat.

“What?” Sansa yelled, her voice filled with unbridled rage.  “Are you here to finish the job, terrorist bitch?  I have bad news for you, because here’s one Stark you can’t kill.”

“No!” Karsi gasped, struggling for breath.  “I wanted to tell you I don’t think it was Mance!”

“Every single person in Westeros knows that Mance Rayder killed them!” Sansa bit out.  “Eddard.  Catelyn.  Rickon.  My family!  And dozens of other innocent people!”

“Bolton,” Karsi said weakly.  Sansa loosened her grip just enough for Karsi to speak.  “Roose Bolton approached Mance about a job.  He didn't give him many details.  Mance turned him down; said he didn’t work on commission and wouldn’t kneel to a southern politician.  A few months later, after the explosion, I saw one of our people on the news with Bolton.  His hair was different, but I’d recognize those pale, dead eyes anywhere.  It was Ramsay Bolton.  We called him Reek, but it was the same man.  He left NLF a week before the bombing.  No one knew where he’d gone.  Some of our explosives were missing.  It was him.”

Sansa stopped breathing a moment.  She shook her head and gasped.  “You’re saying that _Bolton_ bombed the courthouse?”

Karsi was breathing hard.  “I don’t know.  All I know is that Mance refused Bolton, and I recognized Reek.  Ramsay.  I think Mance was framed.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sansa asked.

“When I saw you were Sansa Stark, I knew I could trust you,” Karsi said.  “I knew you’d want justice for your family.  To know who really killed them.  I was afraid to try and travel to Winterfell to approach Brandon Stark.  Too many Bolton people up there and too many eyes on him.  When I saw your name, I knew this was my only chance.”

“Where is Mance Rayder?” Sansa asked.  She still had a firm grip around Karsi’s throat.

“I don’t know,” Karsi said.  “After the bombing, the group dispersed and went underground.  Some went back beyond the wall.  I didn’t want any more involvement with it.  I came here to start over.”

“What makes you think I can do anything about this?” Sansa asked.

“You know the White Wolf,” Karsi said.  “You can tell him about this, and bring Bolton to justice.”

“You can tell him yourself,” Sansa said, and released her.  “Get in the car.”


	7. Break The Silence, Damn The Dark, Damn The Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions run high at JSA and Karsi shares some information with Jon.  Daenerys plans for military action against Meereen.  Jon meets with a contact.  Trystane gets an unwanted phone call.  Willas pays a visit.  The Red Keep hosts a press conference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is borrowed from Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain." You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).

Chapter 7

"Break The Silence, Damn The Dark, Damn The Light."

 

Jon had hurried back to the office after receiving Sam’s panicked call.  It was unusual for him to need to be summoned to the office, as he was usually already there.  Jon had decided to call it a night at 9:30 p.m., thinking that the debrief with Sansa could wait until morning.  Apparently not.  He made a note to himself to remind everyone that if they were the ones summoning him to the office at midnight, they couldn’t reasonably criticize him for being a workaholic.

When he stopped the old-fashioned metal cage elevator at the third floor, he could faintly hear shouting down the hall.

_“Maybe he will, and maybe he won’t, but I can guaran-fucking-tee you that he won’t want you to shoot her here in his gods-damned office and get blood all over his 20,000-dragon antique Myrish carpet!”_

_Arya_ , he thought.  _Fuck_.

 _“I don’t give a fuck about Jon’s fucking carpet!”_ That voice belonged to Robb. 

Jon entered the office conspicuously, not wanting to inadvertently startle Robb or whoever else might be waving guns around.  Sure enough, Robb was standing in the front office on Jon’s Myrish carpet, pointing a 9mm semi-automatic pistol at a young dark-haired woman.  Strangely, she did not look the least bit frightened.

“Robb, put the gun down and use your words,” Jon said calmly.  Jon had no idea who this woman was, but Arya was right.  He wasn’t keen on the idea of ruining his antique carpet, which had been a gift from a grateful client.

Robb lowered the gun, and Jon took it out of his hand.  He removed the magazine, retracted the slide to eject the live round from the chamber, then locked the items in the receptionist’s desk drawer.  “That’s better,” Jon said.  “Guns don’t solve problems.”  He looked over at the young woman.  “That’s what we do here.  Solve problems.”  He extended a hand to her.  “Jon Snow,” he greeted her.

“Karsi Frostfire,” she said.

“Ah,” he said coolly.  “Well, that is a problem.  What’s an NLF bomb expert doing in King’s Landing?  I can’t say wildling terrorists are all that popular here.  In fact, you have the incredible misfortune to be in the presence of four out of the five people in Westeros who would most like to see you dead.  I would recommend explaining yourself quickly.  I can always buy a new carpet.”

Before Karsi could speak, Sansa cut in to explain.  “I found her in Moat Cailin and brought her here because she wants your help in bringing those responsible for the Winterfell bombing to justice.”

“That was my next question,” Jon said to Karsi.  “Where is Mance Rayder?”

After hearing Karsi out and determining that she had no knowledge of Mance Rayder’s whereabouts, Jon and his associates gathered outside the conference room where they could watch Karsi through the glass but converse privately among themselves.  It had taken all of Jon’s considerable powers of self-control to not reenact either Sansa or Robb’s first meetings with the NLF bomber, though he had asked her several times where Mance Rayder was.  Jon’s work didn’t leave him with much free time, but what little of it he had was devoted to searching for the alleged mastermind behind the Winterfell attack.

As shocking as Karsi’s allegations were, they did make sense.  It was undeniable that Bolton had the motive for the attack and had benefitted from it immensely.  His run against Ned Stark for the governorship of the North had been fruitless until the bombing.  Bran had run in Ned’s place, but his young age and perceived soft stance on the wildlings had driven many voters over to Bolton.  Massive voter intimidation courtesy of Bolton’s bastard son had given Bolton the rest of the edge he had needed to win the election.

It was also true that Rayder had not previously targeted innocents.  He had killed people to be sure, but most of the victims were believed to be corrupt Night’s Watch agents accused of rape or other cruel treatment of wildling immigrants, human traffickers who took advantage of desperate refugees and their children, and once a PR who had publicly suggested dealing with the problems of the refugee camps by locking the inhabitants inside and setting the camps on fire.  Bombing targets were invariably government buildings that had in one way or another been emptied of people.  Until Winterfell.

The unfortunate aspect here was that Karsi had absolutely no proof, had no idea where Rayder was, and did not even know what exactly had happened.  It was a frustrating dead end.

“If Karsi can’t help us find Rayder, what else can we do to find him?” Sam asked.  “We need him if we want to build a case against Bolton.”

Jon sighed.  “Trust me, I have been looking.  I have been trying to find him since the bombing.”  Jon considered another possibility for seeking information on Rayder, but he kept it to himself.  It was an avenue of last resort, and he wasn’t sure if wanted to go down that road.  The choice not to had been easy before, but if a killer and a terrorist was running the largest province in Westeros, he might have to reconsider.

“What are we going to do with her?” Sandor asked.

Jon thought a moment.  “No one knows that she’s here.  If anyone is keeping tabs on her, it would be suspicious if she stayed away from Moat Cailin too long.  We send her back on the first flight back to the Moat tomorrow morning with a burner phone in case she needs to get a hold of us.  If we need to talk to her again, we know where to find her.”

Robb glared at him.  “You’re just going to let her go?  How can you be sure she’s telling the truth that she wasn’t involved in the bombing?”

“I have to trust my gut,” Jon said.

“Maybe you trust it, but I don’t,” Robb countered.  “It’s been wrong before.  Remember when you thought Doreah was lying?  And we still haven’t talked about that.  Are you going to explain why you had us commit multiple felonies yesterday?  Everyone’s here.  There’s no more reason to stall.”

Sansa, Arya, and Robb stared at him.  Sam looked at the floor, and Sandor never took his eyes off Karsi.  “Sam?” Jon asked.  “Do you want to tell them, or should I?”

***

“These targets in Meereen have the highest military value while reducing risks of civilian casualties,” Jorah explained.  “This option also poses no risk to our own people, as the attacks would be carried out using unmanned aerial vehicles.  We can combine this strategy with an increased naval presence in Slaver’s Bay.  We can have the carrier battle group _Balerion_ in place within one week.  I consider this our best choice for responding to the atrocities committed by the Meereenese masters, Madame President.”

Daenerys looked at the map of Slaver’s Bay and the proposed targets shown on the large screen on the wall of the small council chamber.  “This plan is acceptable.  What are our other options?”

“We can also strengthen economic sanctions against Meereen and the other cities of Slaver’s Bay which are allied with them,” Jorah said.  “We can put pressure on the Free Cities to adopt the same sanctions in order to maintain their trade agreements with us.”

Vice President Jaime Lannister spoke up then.  “What will be the impact to our industries should the Free Cities choose not to cooperate?  If we enact tariffs against them, we are also risking retaliatory tariffs against our own exports, are we not?”

“There would be a detrimental impact on our exports; particularly on lumber, which would most affect the North; and on consumer electronics, which would affect the high-tech industries in both the Vale and the Stormlands,” Stevron Frey, Master of Coin, said.  “I could speak with the leaders of the Free Cities and remind them that maintaining their relationships with the Republic of Westeros is more important than any business they might have with Meereen.”

A few council members’ phones started dinging and Daenerys saw that surprised looks were being directed at her.  Jaime glanced at his phone, and after initially looking startled, Daenerys was sure she saw him suppress a smirk.

Tyrion glanced at his phone.  “We’ll continue this meeting later after we consider our options.  Jorah, Stevron, please get started on additional planning for what we discussed.  Madame President, could we meet in your office?”

 _It’s happening_ , Daenerys thought.  _Fucking Baelish_.  She had hoped she would have more time.

***

It was the same bench in Blackwater Park where he had first met Doreah where Jon saw the woman he was meeting today.  As much as he did not want to be doing this, there was no other source to find Rayder and Jon needed to find him.  He approached her from behind and when he was still several feet away, she called out to him without turning around.

“Hello Jon,” she said.

He sat down on the bench.  “How did you know it was me?”

“Lucky guess,” she said.  “I was surprised to hear from you.  It’s been a long time.  I’m glad you called though.  I missed you.”

Jon supposed the polite thing to say was that he missed her too, but that would be a lie.  “Thank you for meeting me,” he said instead.

“Of course,” she said.  “I’m assuming you asked to see me because you want my help with the recording.”

“No,” Jon said, confused.  “I want you to tell me where Mance Rayder is.  The recording?  How do you know about that?”

She laughed.  “Every person in Westeros is going to know about it in a few hours.”  She held up her phone which was already cued up to the YouTube app.  She tapped the play button, but she shut it off after a few seconds made it clear what the video was.  Since there was only audio, the poster had simply added a random photo of Daenerys.  The audio was obviously the same as what Daenerys had played for him the night she came to his apartment.

Jon cursed loudly.  “Don’t worry,” she said.  “It’s the short version.  There are actually very few copies of the full recording.  Baelish held it close.  It’s a good thing, because his caution made it simple for me to infect the audio file with a virus that I can activate remotely.  Say the word, Jon, and every trace of it will be obliterated.”  She gave him a warm smile.

Jon took in a sharp breath.  He knew that a favor like this didn’t come for free, not from this woman.  “Mance Rayder,” he said deliberately.  “Do you know where he is?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know any more than you do about that,” she said.  “I wish I did.”

“I came across some information about the Winterfell bombing that indicates someone other than NLF was responsible,” Jon said.  “I need to speak with him to confirm it.”

“Well that would really be something,” she said.  “I wish that I could help you.  I will look into it.  But just as you have already found, Rayder is in the wind.  Most likely he’s gone back beyond the wall.”

Jon pulled on his hair, frustrated.  “I thought you knew everything, about everyone.  You can’t find one man?”

She smiled sadly.  “You overestimate my powers.  But I can help you with you with the recording.  If you want me to, this would be the best time.  Before the president makes a statement about it to the press.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at her.  “What do you want?”

“What I’ve always wanted, Jon,” she said innocently.  “Same as before.  Is it really so much to give up?”

 _Yes_ , he thought.  He knew it would come to this.  He saw right through her sweet act and knew that to agree would be sacrificing his hard-won freedom.  He thought of Daenerys then, though.  Probably frantic, listening to Tyrion rant, watching Trystane smirk, seeing Jaime’s smug face.  Wondering what she would say to her children.  _Fuck_.

“Do it,” Jon said.

She pulled a laptop from her bag, opened it, and tapped on the keyboard for a moment.  She closed the laptop and slid it back into her bag.  “It’s done,” she said.

Jon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

She smiled and got up.  “You probably have some calls to make now.  I’ll leave you to it.”  She put a hand on his shoulder.  “Sunday night, 7 p.m., Jon.  Don’t be late.”

He nodded.  “Bye, mom.”

***

Trystane was headed back to his office after meeting with Daenerys and Tyrion about the leak of the recording.  They had agreed that he and Daenerys would appear together at a press conference later that day and give a statement on the recording.

Tyrion had been in full crisis mode, and it had only succeeded in riling Daenerys up and upsetting her.  They all knew that to ignore the leak was impossible and if anything, would just make the scandal worse.  Lying wasn’t an option, since Baelish still had the full recording.  Telling the truth would be a disaster.

They had settled on a compromise solution of acknowledging that it was a recording of Daenerys, and any further details they considered a “private family matter.”  Trystane did not think that this strategy would work, but it was what Daenerys and Tyrion had come up with.  He supposed that he would have to go along with it.  That was the deal he had made.

As he approached his office, Trystane’s phone rang.  _Oh, for fuck’s sake_ , he thought when he saw the caller ID.

“What?” he bit out.

“Hello Trystane,” he heard Jon Snow say through the phone.  “I’m sorry, I tried calling both Daenerys and Tyrion first, but they didn’t answer and it’s urgent.”

“It always is with you, isn’t it bastard?” he asked angrily.  “We’re a little busy here, in case you’ve been hiding under a rock for the past two hours.”

“That’s why I’m calling,” Snow said.  “One of my contacts infected the audio file of the full recording with a virus.  All copies that existed of it have now been eliminated.”

“That’s hilarious, Snow,” Trystane said.  “You expect me to believe you?  Some ridiculous super-spy bullshit?  You must be pretty desperate for your name to not come out.  To protect your sterling reputation, _White Wolf?”_

“You think I give a fuck about that?” Snow asked impatiently.  “I asked my contact to do this, and not for free.  This is a good opportunity for Daenerys.  If all that’s out there is the shortened clip, she doesn’t have to admit to anything!  It proves nothing.  I’m trying to protect Daenerys’ presidency.  That should make sense to you, considering the lengths we _both_ went to put her in office.  Or have you forgotten?”

“I haven’t forgotten, _bastard_ ,” he hissed.  “What would you have her do?  Lie?  Lies might come easily to you, but not everyone is so dishonest.  Speaking of that, how do I even know you’re telling the truth about the recording being destroyed?”

“You have a copy, right?” Snow asked.  “Check and see if you can still play it.”

Trystane woke his computer from sleep mode and opened the folder with the audio file.  It was still there.  He double-clicked on it to start playing it, bracing himself for the delightful sounds of his wife getting fucked by the asshole on the phone.  Nothing happened for a moment.  Then his screen flickered, and an error message popped up that read “Error 134: The file you are attempting to access has been corrupted.”  Then the computer shut off.   It could not be restarted.

“Motherfucker!” he yelled. 

The bastard laughed through the phone.  “Sounds like it worked.  Guess I wasn’t lying after all.  I hope you backed up your files.”

Trystane continued to try and start the computer, cursing all the while.

“Look, Trystane,” Snow said.  “I’m sorry about your computer.  I didn’t know that would happen.  I haven’t tried it myself.  I knew my contact could be trusted so I didn’t bother.”

“It’s fine,” he replied coolly.  “We have IT guys who can fix it.”

“You probably don’t want my advice, but here it is anyway,” Snow said.  “Daenerys shouldn’t lie.  You should.  Say it’s you on there.  Express your righteous outrage at you and your wife’s privacy being violated.  Turn a negative into a positive.  You should both get a bump in approvals overall if you do.  Ask Tyrion if you don’t believe me.”

“Wow, thanks Snow!” Trystane said sarcastically.  “There’s no way I could have worked all that out myself.  Are we done?”

“Just about,” Snow said.  “There’s still the Ryswell complaint to worry about.  Baelish might not have the recording anymore, but he might have something else.  Can you tell Daenerys I need to come and meet with her about it after the press conference?”

Trystane laughed.  “I’m not her fucking secretary, Snow.  You want to see her, make an appointment.”  He hung up.

***

By the time Jon arrived back at the office, he had managed to get in touch with Tyrion.  He had reiterated what he had told Trystane and made arrangements to meet Daenerys later that day.  He was relieved that Tyrion agreed with him about the strategy for the press conference.  If he was going to be forced under Lyanna’s thumb once more, he didn’t want it to be for nothing.  She was toxic and dangerous and Jon wasn’t naïve enough to think she would content herself with their Sunday dinner ritual.  Eventually he would have to pay for this.

He saw that Robb and Sansa were working on connecting Bolton with the Winterfell bombing and were reviewing their files on Ramsay Bolton and his voter intimidation campaign in the last election.  Sandor had arrived back from dropping Karsi off at KLX.  Arya was poring over YouTube comments on the Baelish recording.

“Why are you reading those, Arya?” Jon asked, exasperated. 

“Most of the commenters are speculating who the other person in the recording is,” Arya said.  “This could be important information for us to have.  Besides, it’s hilarious.”  She showed him where she had tallied the commenters’ guesses.  “A lot of commenters have guessed it’s you, but not as many as have guessed either Jaime Lannister or Jorah Mormont.  You’re ahead of her husband, though.”  She burst out laughing.

Jon scoffed.  “It’s not going to matter in a couple hours when Trystane gives a statement about how outraged he is that this recording was made of him and his wife.”

“How gracious of him,” Arya said sardonically.

“Gracious, my ass,” Jon muttered.

“Hello everyone.”  Willas Tyrell walked into the office along with a few of his assistants.  “You all look like you’re hard at work.  It wouldn’t happen to be about that crime scene you cleaned up two days ago, would it?”

Robb got up and walked up to Willas, staring him down.  “You can’t just barge in here without a warrant.”

Willas was not intimidated.  “You can’t just tamper with a crime scene, so perhaps we can call it even.  Where’s Samwell Tarly?”

“What do you want with him?” Jon asked.

“One of Doreah Lohar’s neighbors saw him go into her apartment the night she died.  The same neighbor saw a different man covered in blood run from the rear exit of her building, so while it’s clear Tarly isn’t the killer, he’s a material witness.  What’s unclear is why you cleaned up the crime scene.  Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that there’s no record of Tarly’s existence prior to 2014.”

“Who said anything about us cleaning up a crime scene?” Arya asked.

Willas held up a finger, bidding her to wait.  “I just need to make a quick call.”  A cell phone could be heard ringing in the conference room.  “You really should turn the ringer off when you steal a phone.”  Willas shook his head and turned to one of his assistants.  “Go bring me the phone, please.”  He looked at Jon, Robb, and Arya.  “What’s Samwell’s number?” he asked sarcastically.

Sam walked out from the back of the office.  “I’m right here,” he said.

Robb grimaced and stood next to Sam.  “Don’t say anything,” he told Sam.  He turned to Willas.  “Fine.  But we do this at your office, no booking.”

“Fine by me,” Willas said.  Sam looked back helplessly at Jon, who gave him a reassuring nod.  Robb, Sam, and Willas and his entourage left the office.

“Shouldn’t Sam have given Robb a dragon to officially hire him as his lawyer?” Arya asked Jon.

Jon looked at her perplexed and shook his head.  “Did you see that on a T.V. show or something?”

“Fucking lawyers,” Arya muttered.

***

Daenerys leaned back onto her office sofa and let out a long breath.  She swirled the wine in her glass and downed it.

“Have some wine,” she said.  “Only the best Dornish Red in the Red Keep, naturally.  Can’t have any of that swill from the Arbor here, Trystane would have a fit.”

Jon had caught most of the press conference while he waited for his meeting with Daenerys.  It had gone very well, but Daenerys was clearly upset in spite of that.  Trystane had fielded all the reporters’ questions with all the proper outrage one would be expected to have if his private moments with his wife were recorded, all while gazing at Daenerys lovingly.  Even knowing the truth, Jon had found it convincing.

Jon poured some wine into a glass.  “You’re upset,” he observed.

“Caught that, did you?” Daenerys said bitterly.

“I guess I don’t understand why, exactly,” Jon said.  He sat down in an armchair across from her.  “The press conference went well.  The rest of recording is gone.  YouTube even responded favorably to your take-down demand based on those revenge porn statutes.  Crisis averted.”

“This might sound crazy to you, considering what you do, but it wasn’t until it was actually over that I realized I didn’t actually want this crisis to be averted.  Part of me wanted it all to explode.  Even if it meant I was impeached or forced to resign, part of me wanted to just tell the truth.  I’m so tired of this charade.  I feel so trapped here, now more than ever.”

Jon stared at her, confused.  “I thought you would be happy.  You told me once that being president was what you wanted most in the world.  You were right to say it.  There’s been so much good that you’ve done here, and so much more to come.”

“I didn’t realize what I’d be giving up,” she said.

“I don’t understand,” he said, agitated.

“If I didn’t have this job, I could be free,” she said.  “We could be together.”

Abandoning his wine on an end table, Jon bit down on his lip and dragged his hands through his hair.  He didn’t want to fight with Daenerys, but he couldn’t help being angry.  He tried to carefully choose his words.  “We’ve all given up a lot for you to be here.  I know I have.  Don’t let it be for nothing.  This situation, it’s not forever.  You’re not giving me up.  I’m not giving you up.”  He paused a moment and closed his eyes.  “It’s just not easy to wait.”

Daenerys shook her head resolutely.  “No, Jon.  You shouldn’t wait for me.”

Jon met her eyes with a sad smile.  “I’ll always wait for you, Dany, no matter what.” 

He grabbed his wine glass and took a long drink from it.  “Besides, you may get your wish.  We still have the Ryswell complaint to worry about.  Baelish might have more tricks up his sleeve.”

Daenerys leaned forward.  “The hearing on our motion for change of venue is in a week, but Ryswell still has time to file a motion to remand the case back to district court.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t done that already,” Jon said.  “Maybe Baelish didn’t pay her enough to actually litigate the case.  He was probably counting on the recording more than anything.”

“Maybe,” Daenerys agreed.  “He might still be hoping to catch me in a lie.”

“Whatever else he might have planned, we’ll be ready,” Jon said.  “I am keeping a close eye on him now, especially after he confronted Sansa in Winterfell.  We’re on the offensive now.  He’s going to regret coming for us.  I’m going to make the tire iron feel like a hug.”

Daenerys smiled wickedly and raised her wine glass to clink against his.


	8. Just Open Up And Swallow Down, Once It Hits Bottom, Things May Turn Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks after being picked up as a material witness in Doreah Lohar murder case, Sam appears for his first day in court.  Trystane makes a suggestion about his and Daenerys’ future.  Jon and Sandor meet with a new client.  Arya resists Ned’s journalistic efforts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is borrowed from No Doubt's "You Can Do It." You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).
> 
> Olenna is a Redwyne, not a Tyrell. She and Willas are not related.

 

Chapter 8

“Just Open Up And Swallow Down, Once It Hits Bottom, Things May Turn Around.”

 

Jon accompanied Rhaenys Targaryen through the throng of reporters near the courthouse who were all shouting questions at them.  Rhaenys, King’s Landing’s top criminal defense attorney and now Sam’s lawyer, was always Jon’s first phone call when he had a client in serious legal trouble.

_“What is Mr. Flowers’ state of mind after four weeks in federal detention?”_ a reporter from the KL Herald shouted.

_“What does Mr. Flowers think of his new nickname, the Mad Bomber of Gulltown?”_ a reporter from the Gulltown Record yelled.

_“Miss Targaryen,”_ a reporter from the Sunspear Inquirer said.  _“What does the president think of her niece representing the Gulltown Bomber?”_

“Mr. Snow,” a WCN reporter asked as a microphone was shoved towards him.  “What do you have to say to claims by District Attorney Willas Tyrell that this is an open and shut case?”

Jon was startled to see that it was Shae Lannister who had asked him the question.  He had thought that Tyrion’s wife had left her job at WCN.  Apparently not.  He and Rhaenys had ignored the other reporters’ questions, but Jon decided to take Shae’s. 

“I would say it’s premature considering that we’ve only just heard opening statements,” Jon told her confidently.  “The evidence in this case is circumstantial at best, and Mr. Tyrell knows this as well as anyone.”

Rhaenys stood next to Jon and addressed the WCN reporter as well.  “The defense team is very much looking forward to proving our case and I have every confidence that justice will be done and that my client, Dickon Flowers, will be exonerated.”

Three days later, both Jon and Rhaenys were less confident.  The prosecution had presented a strong case, circumstantial evidence notwithstanding.  They had the motive, the means, and worst of all, Sam had run away. 

The most damning piece of evidence had been the voicemail recording.  Rhaenys hadn’t been able to get it excluded, although she had tried her best.  She had argued that the recording’s probative value was substantially outweighed by its danger of unfair prejudice to the jury.  The court had disagreed.  Sam had admitted to Rhaenys that after learning his girlfriend had been unfaithful to him, he had called her and left the message in an alcoholic haze.  It had mostly been an incoherent drunken rant, but Tyrell had done his best to make a phrase Sam had used – “you’re dead to me” – sound like a literal threat.  Sam had insisted that he never would have harmed Chella, and Jon knew that he was telling the truth.  Sam wouldn’t harm a fly.

“If you just put Sam on the stand, I think the jury will see what he’s really like and realize there’s no way he could have bombed that building,” Sansa said.  “He’s so gentle.  The jury will see that.  He was just frightened; that’s why he ran.”

“It’s too much of a risk to open him up to cross,” Rhaenys countered.  “His story has too many holes, and too much of what he says happened can’t be verified.”

“What about the mystery man Sam says knocked him out in the motel in Gulltown?” Robb asked.  “Have we had any success locating any surveillance footage that may back up his story?  He says that he was drugged and when he woke up, he was across the country in a hotel room in King’s Landing.  A whole set of paperwork supporting a new identity was laid out on the sideboard.  An unconscious man being carried out of or into a hotel room would be conspicuous on a security camera.  It also isn’t simple or inexpensive to so thoroughly fabricate a false identity.  Can we trace who forged the new identity?”

“Sandor’s been looking into that,” Jon said.  “Anything there, Sandor?”

“Nothing,” Sandor said.

“And we’re absolutely positive Sam’s telling the truth?” Arya asked.

“Yes,” Jon said firmly.

***

Jon, Rhaenys, Robb, and Sansa were poring over evidence for Sam’s case when Sandor came in to announce that Jon had a visitor.

“Who is it?” Jon asked, distractedly.  “I don’t recall any appointments today.”

“I don’t know,” Sandor said.  “The girl doesn’t speak any common.  All I could make out was ‘Snow.’”

“I’ll be right back,” Jon said and followed Sandor to the front office.

The girl waiting in the front office looked to be about 16 years old and had a Volantene look about her.  She spoke in the Valyrian dialect common to Volantis, which thankfully was one of the dialects Jon was most familiar with.

Jon introduced himself and Sandor, and the girl said that her name was Nileya.  She had been brought to Westeros by human traffickers with two dozen other girls from Volantis two years prior.

“How did you manage to escape?” Jon asked her.

“The man who is responsible for guarding us at night made me go with his friend who is a police officer,” Nileya said.  She looked at her feet and her hands were trembling.  “He was very drunk, and after he finished with me, he fell asleep before he could return me to the house where they keep us.  I took some of his money and ran away, but I was too afraid to go to the police because several of the men they make us go with are police.  I came here instead.”

“What made you think to come here?” Jon asked.

“They have televisions in the house and I saw you on the news with the Westerosi president,” Nileya said.  “I cannot speak in the common tongue, but I understand a little from watching television.  In Essos, President Targaryen is known for helping women, so I thought you might help me and the other girls.  I found a cab driver from who could understand me, and asked him to bring me to you.”

Jon asked Nileya to come with him to his office so she could sit down, and asked Sandor to bring her tea.  “Are you hungry?” Jon asked.  The girl nodded.  “I think we have some leftover Pentoshi food in the kitchen.  I’ll go heat some up for you.  You can wait here, okay?”  She nodded.

“What do you think?” Jon asked Sandor when he arrived in the kitchen.

“It’s a good thing that she came here and not the police,” Sandor replied.  “There are a lot of corrupt cops in this city, and even the ones who aren’t corrupt will cover for the ones who are.  If any King’s Landing police are involved in a human trafficking ring, it would not be a good idea to involve them.”

“I agree,” Jon said.  “If she has information about the traffickers, we can use that to find the other girls.”

Jon and Sandor returned to Jon’s office with the food and tea for Nileya.  She still seemed nervous, but she ate the food as though she had been very hungry.  Jon noted that the girl was rail-thin.  Her captors clearly did not give her much food.

“Nileya, how did you and the other girls come to be in the company of these traffickers?” Jon asked.

“All of us were either orphans or from poor families whose parents couldn’t take care of their children,” Nileya said.  “In Volantis, it is common for poor children to be forced away from their homes when they are older.  I was 14 when my mother said I had to leave.  She could not afford food for my younger siblings and me.  I went to the Long Bridge to try to find work there, and it wasn’t long before a man told me that if I went with him, he would take me to Westeros where I could make a good income as a housekeeper and send money back to help my siblings.  The other girls were told the same and many of them were also found on the Long Bridge.”

“Do you know where the house is where you and the other women are kept?” Jon asked.

“No,” Nileya said.  “When we are sent away from the house, we are always taken in a windowless van.  I did not even know what city this was until the cab driver told me.”

“What about the police officer you escaped from?” Jon asked.  “Do you remember his name or address, or what the place looked like?”

“He never said his name,” she said.  “I ran quickly from the house; I did not think to look for a house number.  It was a yellow house with a metal fence.  It smelled like there was water nearby.  The man was tall and thin, and had long black hair and a long beard.”

They didn’t have much information to go on, but it didn’t seem that Nileya knew much more.  She also looked exhausted.  Jon and Sandor would have to get started using the information that they had and Nileya needed a place to stay.  He called Arya.

***

Arya heard her phone ringing in her pants pocket somewhere on Ned’s floor.  She kicked the blankets off herself and cursed.  Ned protested as the blankets were kicked away from him as well.

“Shh,” she said, looking at the caller ID.  “I have to take this.  Work.”

“This better be good,” she told Jon through the phone.  Jon told her about Nileya and asked her to come to the office to pick her up.  Arya groaned. 

“If she doesn’t speak the common tongue, wouldn’t it be better for her to stay with you?”

“I think she’d be more comfortable with a woman,” Jon said.  “What?  Do you have a hot date?  Sansa and I are busy with Sam’s case.”

“Fine,” Arya said resentfully.  “But you should warn her that my place is a pigsty and Khalessi is there.  I hope she isn’t afraid of dogs.  I’ll be there in 20.”  She hung up and started pulling her clothes on.

“Must be something important to drag you back to the office so late,” Ned observed.  “Something to do with the Flowers case?  Do you have a new witness?”

Arya had to admire his persistence.  They had been seeing each other for a month, and Ned continued to try to ask her questions; first about Doreah, and now about Sam.  She answered the same way every time.  At first Arya wondered if he was only with her to use her as a source.  At this point, she doubted it.  If that had been his purpose, it had been a spectacular failure and waste of his time.

Arya climbed on the bed, straddled him, and held a finger against his lips.  “No comment,” she said, kissed him deeply, and left.

***

Sam looked around the small cell set aside in the detention center for prisoners to meet with their lawyers.  He brushed a speck of dust from the cuff of his orange jumpsuit.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked Jon.

Jon’s eyes widened.  He had not been expecting the question.  “What do you mean, Sam?” he asked.

Sam sighed.  “Sam,” he mused.  “If I get out of here, I think I’ll keep that.  I always got teased with the name Dickon.  My old life is dead anyway.  Dickon Flowers was killed in that explosion along with Chella and the others.  What I mean is, why are you helping me?  I had been working for you less than two weeks when I was arrested.  And you knew.  When I called you from Doreah’s, you said to not call the police.  You insisted on erasing any evidence that I’d been there.  You knew I wasn’t Samwell Tarly.  I’ve had some time to think about this.  You told Arya to hire me without even meeting me.  You knew from the beginning.  So why me?”

“You’re my client,” Jon said.

“That isn’t an answer,” Sam said.

“Yes, it is.  It’s the only answer that matters.  But I don’t need to give you answers, I need to get you out of here,” Jon said angrily.  “I shouldn’t have to explain to you who I am, what I can do.  You already know.  I just need you to trust me.  You are not going to die in here, Sam.  You have my word.  Do you trust me?”

Sam nodded.  For a lawyer, he didn’t have a high tolerance for confrontation.  He had gone as far as he was willing to.  “Yes.”

***

The night before the last day of trial, Robb approached Jon alone.  “I overheard a juror talking.  They’re set to convict.  We’re out of moves, Jon.  It’s probably not too late to talk to Tyrell about a plea deal.  He’s reasonable.”

“I am never out of moves,” Jon said.  “Sam is innocent.  I’m not telling him to take a plea deal.”

Robb held up his hands.  “Okay.  I hear you.  I just thought I should tell you.”

Jon paced his office for a few minutes after Robb left.  There was only one thing left to do.  He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Well if it isn’t Jon Snow,” Chief Justice Olenna Redwyne said.  “I haven’t heard from you in weeks.  Too busy for your old friend?”

“I’m sorry, Olenna,” Jon said.  “I’ve been so wrapped up in this case.” 

“From what I hear, things don’t look good for Samwell,” she said.

“They don’t,” he agreed.  “We can’t let Sam go to prison.  You know it’s not right.  I need your help.”

***

“That concludes the testimony in this case,” the judge announced.

Sam took a deep breath and tried to stay calm.  He couldn’t help but sneak a glance over at the jury, although Rhaenys had warned him not to.  He thought that they looked angry.  He felt resigned.  Although he knew he was telling the truth and that he hadn’t bombed the Skytech building, his story sounded implausible even to his own ears.

“Your honor, at this time the defense would move for a judgment of acquittal based on our assertion that the government’s evidence is circumstantial and they have failed to prove their case,” Rhaenys said.

“Didn’t she already try this?” Sam whispered to Robb.

“It’s a pro forma motion,” Robb whispered back.  “The defense can try it twice.  It never works.”

“Motion granted,” the judge said.

“Except when it does,” Robb said, baffled.  Sam’s eyes went wide and he was speechless.  Even Rhaenys looked shocked.  Jon’s face was bland and expressionless, as though he hadn’t been paying attention.

Willas Tyrell jumped out his seat.  “What in seven hells?” he bellowed.  “On what grounds?”

“I will have order in this court, Mr. Tyrell,” the judge said sternly.  He fixed Willas with a hard stare.  “I agree that the evidence is circumstantial and the government has failed to prove its case.  That concludes this trial.”

The courtroom emptied until Jon and Willas were the only ones left.

“I know you did this, Snow,” Willas said angrily.  “I don’t know how, but I am going to find out.”  He glared at Jon and left the courtroom to face the barrage of reporters outside.

***

Daenerys poured some more Dornish Red into her glass and returned her attention to the nature documentary she and Trystane were watching in the Maidenvault’s sitting room.  The documentary was one in a series; this one was about snow bears and other animals in the far north.  Daenerys liked watching these shows when she had the chance; she found them relaxing.  It had been a trying few days with work and she was happy to have a moment to rest.

In the month since their agreement, Daenerys had found herself spending more time with Trystane.  It wasn’t as terrible as she imagined it would be, although he certainly had not lost his ability to aggravate her.  She would even occasionally seek his counsel on political matters.  He had good instincts for it, which surprised Daenerys.  He hadn’t previously shown much interest in politics.

Trystane turned to her.  “Daenerys, I think we should have another baby.”

Daenerys’ mouth hung open in shock.  “Have you lost your mind?” she asked lowly after a moment.

“No,” he said.  “Why is it such a crazy idea?  I thought it might make you happy.”

“Why would you think that?” she asked.  She resisted the urge to yell at him; she didn’t want to wake Nym and Egg.

“You haven’t really seemed happy since you took office,” he explained.  “You were so happy after Nym and Egg were born.  Why not?  We’re still young.”  He gave her a teasing grin.  “I suppose that doesn’t matter for me as much as you.”

“It’s an easy thing for you to suggest,” she said bitterly.  “You’re not the one who would have to endure endless weeks of blood tests, transvaginal ultrasounds, hormone injections in your abdomen that make you a weeping wreck, invasive surgery, and the incredibly painful twice-daily progesterone injections in your ass.  Again.  All you’d have to do is jerk off into a cup.  No thank you.”

“It’s been almost ten years,” he said.  “Maybe we wouldn’t need IVF again.”

“So perhaps my ovaries magically started working normally all of a sudden, on their own?” she asked sarcastically.  “Gerold said it was impossible.  You were the one to tell me he’s the best reproductive endocrinologist in Westeros.”

Daenerys diplomatically did not bring up the fact that she would prefer to chew off her own fingers than attempt procreation with him in the normal fashion.

“I don’t know,” he said, annoyed.  “Maybe?  I could ask him to come visit King’s Landing so he can examine you.”

Gerold Dayne had been the fertility specialist they had consulted in Dorne ten years before when they had trouble conceiving.  Trystane had wanted to use him then because the longstanding friendship between the Daynes and the Martells ensured their troubles would remain private.

Daenerys huffed in frustration.  “That won’t be necessary.  I don’t really feel the need to make anyone else, Trystane.  Why are you even suggesting this?  And don’t try to say it’s because you care so much about me being happy.  I’ve always enjoyed being able to count on you for your honesty, if nothing else.”

“Fine,” Trystane said, rolling his eyes.  “You’ll be running for reelection in two years.  Voters love babies.  Surely you can see the practical advantages.”

“I can get reelected on my own,” she replied acidly.  “I don’t need you to impregnate me to scrounge votes.  But I still don’t understand why you even care about it.”

“You’re not going to be in office forever,” he said coolly.  “Maybe I would like to have a political future for myself instead of hiding behind my wife’s skirts my whole life.  And why shouldn’t I?  I’m perfectly capable.  It would be much easier if your reelection campaign is successful.”

Daenerys laughed.  “At least you’re honest.  Trystane, I am not interested in having another baby.  But if you want to run for president after me, senator from Dorne, or Flea Bottom dog-catcher, consider the vast resources of the House Targaryen political machine at your command.  My only condition is that you keep your DNA to yourself.”

***

“Have you ever thought about going into politics like your father and your aunt, Rhaenys?” Robb asked.

Rhaenys wrinkled her nose in disgust.  “Seven hells, no.  I endured three years of law school in the brutal heat of Sunspear.  I’m going to stay a real lawyer and leave politics to Rhaegar and Daenerys.”  Realizing what she said, her tone turned apologetic.  “No offence to you two, obviously.”

Jon raised his eyebrows at her, but Robb laughed.  “None taken,” Robb said, and smiled at her conspiratorially.  “You know what they say about lawyers.  A students become law professors, B students become attorneys, and C students become fixers.”

“That’s not quite the way I heard that story; also, I’m pretty sure you can’t graduate law school with a C average,” she said.  “Right, Jon?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jon replied.  “I never got a C.”

“Oh really?” she teased.  “Top of your class, then?”

“No, I was second,” he said dully.

“Ouch,” she said.  “That must have hurt.  So close.  Who was first?”

Jon jerked his thumb at Robb and Rhaenys burst out laughing.  Robb blushed and Rhaenys batted her eyelashes at him.  Robb wasn’t usually so modest, but he was thrown off balance a bit by the beautiful defense attorney.  He had met her a few times, but the eyelash batting was a new thing.  She had long, black eyelashes that framed dark brown eyes.  After a moment, he realized that he was staring and that she definitely noticed.

“I’ll be in my office,” Jon said.  “You two don’t need my help to flirt with each other.  Unless you want to drool over Robb’s law school transcripts.  I probably have a copy of them somewhere around here.”

“Don’t mind him,” Robb said after Jon had walked away.  “If he wants to brood over winning, that’s his business.”  He stepped closer to her.  “You and I should go celebrate, though.”

Rhaenys smiled.  “Sounds good to me.”

***

Late that night, Jon had finally settled into bed.  It had been a long day.  After leaving court with Sam, Jon hadn’t taken any time off to celebrate.  He, Sandor, and Arya went back to work on Nileya’s case.  They had been able to locate the yellow house, and Nileya confirmed that the photos they took of the man at the house was the same man she had run from.  They were collecting more information about the man – his name was Vargo Hoat – and trying to find out who else on the police force might be involved with him in the human trafficking ring.  So far, they hadn’t been able to locate the rest of the girls.

His phone rang on his nightstand.  He groaned before checking the caller ID, but he answered.

“Madame President,” he answered.

“Hey,” Daenerys said.  “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Jon said.  “I was working late on a case.  Shouldn’t you be sleeping?  Things must be busy over there with the situation with Meereen.”

Daenerys sighed.  “I couldn’t sleep.  I needed to hear your voice.”

“Did you try watching one of your nature shows?” he asked.

She laughed.  “I did.  It was one about snow bears.  Trystane ruined it though; he said he wants to have another baby.”

“Oh yeah?” Jon said neutrally.

“I told him to get fucked,” she said.  “Not in so many words, but that was the gist.  What, do you think I should have agreed?”

Jon was quiet a moment.  “No.”

She let out a long breath and changed the subject.  “Rhaenys told me about Sam.  Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Jon said.  “He’s innocent.  It was a good day.  Willas Tyrell is out for my blood now, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“So, all’s quiet at JSA now?” she asked.

“Not quite,” he replied, and told her about Nileya.

“That’s terrible,” Daenerys said.  “What can I do to help?”

“We can’t involve the King’s Landing Police, but maybe you could ask Jeor Mormont to help.”

“Consider it done,” she said.  “I also want to set up a program to combat this.  To help trafficking victims.”  She sighed.  “We need to weed out corruption in the police department as well.”

“Those are both good ideas,” he said.  They both didn’t say anything for a moment.

“I miss you, Dany,” Jon said quietly.

“I miss you too,” she said.

“You should get some sleep,” he said.

“You too,” she said.  “Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight, Dany.”

***

_King’s Landing, 16 months earlier_

Sandor pushed the laundry cart out of the freight elevator and down the hall.  He had disabled the loading dock camera and was now keeping an eye out for suspicious guests.  There were none; it was late.  When he reached room 517, he opened the door with his key card and pushed the laundry cart inside.

_This Flowers is a heavy fucker_ , he thought.  No matter.  All he had to do was lift him from the cart and put him down on the bed.  Flowers was still in a deep sleep.  Sandor had given him another dose of tranquilizer before taking him off the private plane which had landed at the small airport in Duskendale three hours earlier.  Duskendale was a decent-sized city, but its airport was on the small side and many of the people there preferred KLX for its cheaper flights.  There was less attention paid at smaller airports, so Sandor had recommended it for this task.

He neatly arranged the papers he had brought on the sideboard along with a thick packet of 100 dragon notes.  Drivers license, social insurance card, birth certificate, passport, diplomas – all in the name Samwell Tarly.  The identification would all check out; even the schools had a record of the degrees having been issued.

Sandor checked on Flowers – now Tarly – once again before leaving.  He pushed the laundry cart into the fifth-floor freight elevator alcove and returned to his van at the loading dock.  He parked across the street from the hotel and waited.  Hours later, when he saw Tarly leave the hotel, he sent a quick text and then returned to room 517.  He checked the room quickly and then returned to where the van was parked.  He got into the little white car that was now parked behind the van.

“He took it,” Sandor said.  “Everything we left for him.  He’s good to go.”

Jon nodded.  “Thanks Sandor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or someone you know is a victim of human trafficking, please call the National Human Trafficking Hotline at 1 (888) 373-7888 or you can text the BeFree textline at 233733. You can also find out more about human trafficking at <https://polarisproject.org/>.


	9. They Fed Us On Little White Lies; I Think You’re Crazy, Maybe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willas investigates Jon’s connection to the Skytech bombing.  Jon gets called in to help the most unlikely of clients with a family emergency.  Trystane puts his foot in his mouth. Jeor Mormont assists with JSA’s human trafficking case.  Plans are made for Daenerys’ nameday gala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is borrowed from Radiohead's "Motion Picture Soundtrack." You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).
> 
> Many thanks to Tip O'Neill, Anthony Scaramucci, and Margaret Thatcher for their quotes which are included in this chapter.

Chapter 9

“They Fed Us On Little White Lies; I Think You’re Crazy, Maybe.”

 

When Willas Tyrell arrived at the quiet coffee shop on Visenya’s Hill at the agreed-upon time, he saw that his assistant - or former assistant, he thought bitterly – was already waiting impatiently.  Although he was on day three of a suspension following the disastrous result of the Flowers case, his assistant was still willing to help him in his investigation of Jon Snow’s connection with Samwell Tarly and the Skytech bombing.  Mya Stone sat at a small table in the back of the coffee shop, biting the straw of her black iced coffee.  She had a stack of papers which had been tabbed and highlighted sitting in front of her.

“Finally, you show up,” Mya huffed.  She slid a coffee cup towards him.  “I got you your usual vanilla latte.  It’s probably cold by now.”

Willas tasted the latte.  It was lukewarm, but he thought it wouldn’t do to mention that to Mya.  Mya was an excellent paralegal, but not a patient one.  In Mya’s world, if you arrive after she does, you are late.  “I’m not late, but thank you for the latte,” he said instead.

She pushed the papers towards him and he glanced at the front page.  “You’ll want to skip to page three,” Mya said.  “That’s where it gets interesting.”

“A King’s Landing area code,” he observed.

“That Tarly’s ex-girlfriend Chella Blackear called eleven times in the week before the explosion,” Mya said.  “It gets better.  The number belongs to the head of security for Frey Petroleum.”

Willas reviewed the rest of the phone records, but the calls to Frey Petroleum were the only ones of interest.  Willas had come to realize in the days following the conclusion of the Flowers trial that his focus while trying the case had been too narrow.  He had only focused on Flowers and had ignored his girlfriend almost entirely.  These phone records confirmed that that had been a mistake.

Mya continued.  “After I got these records, I did some research.  Frey Petroleum has never had any sort of contract with Skytech.  There isn’t much reason why they would.  It’s a small software company and Frey Petroleum is a huge worldwide corporation.”

“Why do you think Chella was calling their security chief then?” Willas asked.

Mya scoffed.  “I’m a paralegal, Willas.  That kind of thing would be for _you_ to figure out.”

Willas rolled his eyes.  “You’re a third-year law student at KLU.  I’m sure you have some ideas.”

Mya smirked at him before sucking down more iced coffee.  “Fair enough.  I don’t know why Chella would make those calls or what the connection is with Frey Petroleum, but I do know what she worked on at Skytech.  She developed their voting machine software.”

Willas pursed his lips.  He was starting to think that Samwell Tarly didn’t have anything to do with any of this.  Samwell had been a junior associate at a Gulltown firm that had no connection with either software or oil and gas development or lobbying.  Jon Snow and Walder Frey – that was a different story entirely.  Either one of them would have the connections to have Tarly’s case dismissed.

Mya continued.  “Frey Petroleum has heavily funded campaigns for ballot initiatives to build oil pipelines throughout Westeros.  The Skytech software isn’t used in every province, but it is in use in some districts in the Riverlands where these initiatives have come up on the ballot.”

Willas recalled that these pipelines had been popular in the areas where they had been proposed.  The initiatives had been approved, and while detractors claimed they were bad for the environment, proponents had swayed voters to their side with promises of cheap gas throughout Westeros and high-paying jobs for local residents.  If Frey Petroleum was in direct contact with a software engineer who developed the voting machine software, it was highly suspect. 

“I need to talk to Walder Frey,” Willas said.

***

“Nileya, thanks for coming by,” Jon said.  “We’re meeting with Director Mormont tomorrow about the other girls, but I wanted to run something by you.”

“It’s no trouble,” Nileya said.

“President Targaryen wants to start a program to help trafficking victims, and I wanted to ask you if you would be interested in being involved.  It would be helpful to have someone who has experienced this advise those running the program and act as a spokesperson.  I know you’ve said that you wanted to stay in Westeros.  This might be a way for you to have work here to help your family and help other trafficking victims.”

“It sounds like a good idea, but I don’t speak very much of the common tongue,” she said uncertainly.

“Arya tells me that you’ve been picking it up a little,” Jon said.  “Anyway, that’s not as important as your bravery and your experience.  Maybe think about it and let me know?”

Her face brightened.  “I will do that.”

Arya came into the office a moment later carrying a handful of mail.  “You know Jon, maybe we could hire a receptionist, so I wouldn’t have to be distracted from my important crisis management shit to do menial tasks like sort through the office mail,” she said without preamble.

Nileya laughed.  “See, I told you her common was getting better,” Arya said smugly.  She tossed Jon a heavy square black envelope embossed with glittering red dragon on the back.  Jon groaned before even opening it.

“Yes,” Jon said.  “I could tell a receptionist to throw things like this away and then just pretend I never received them.”

Arya turned her head to Nileya.  “See what I mean?  He acts like it’s the end of the world to be invited to the president’s nameday gala.  Horror of horrors.”

Jon looked hopeful.  “Does that mean you’re interested in going?”

Arya looked horrified.  “Like as your date?  Hells no, fuck that.  You’re on your own.  Make Sansa do it.  Or you know, ask someone to actually be your date.”

Jon shot her a murderous glare, which only amused Arya.  He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a weary breath.  “Nileya, thanks again for coming by.  Arya, if you don’t mind, I have some important crisis management ‘shit’ to do, so you know.  Later.”

The two women left Jon’s office laughing.  “Sansa!” Jon shouted.

“Hells no!  Fuck that, Jon.  You’re on your own!” Sansa shouted from down the hall.  He rolled his eyes.  One would think that one of these two, whom he both considered to be his sisters, would be willing to help keep him from embarrassing himself, but no.  Now he had the unenviable choice between skipping Daenerys’ nameday gala, making a tabloid spectacle of himself by showing up alone, or taking a date to his lover’s party. 

The main office line rang, and Jon picked up.  _Maybe Arya is right; I should hire a receptionist_ , he thought.  “Jon Snow and Associates,” he answered and listened for a few moments.

“I’ll be there in five hours,” he said.

***

Jon looked around the spacious and modern Storm’s End residence.  Rain lashed furiously at the enormous windows which overlooked the craggy Narrow Sea coastline.  The sea churned like an angry beast under a leaden sky, gray as slate with foamy white-peaked waves breaking against jagged rock.

He and Sansa waited in the sitting room of a home he had never expected to see the inside of for the last possible client Jon could have expected.  Jon had rushed to Storm’s End with Sansa, making the 385-mile trip in just over four hours.  One of the things Jon loved about Ghost was its speed.  Jon had left the rest of the team to continue work on Nileya’s case.  Robb would most likely have to handle the upcoming meeting with Jeor Mormont. 

Jon’s client walked into the room alone.  Jon had expected him to be accompanied by advisers or assistants, but aside from the woman who had greeted Jon and Sansa at the door, there didn’t appear to be anyone else here.  The client had as stern a face as ever; his whole face seemed to be clenched.  Despite the disturbing situation, he appeared calm and businesslike.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Snow, Ms. Stark,” he said formally.

Jon extended his hand and his client gripped it firmly.  “We’re pleased to be able to assist you, President Baratheon.”

The former President of the Republic of Westeros bid them to have a seat and handed Jon a large envelope from which he slid several photos.  There were three photos of Selyse Baratheon, a grim-looking woman of 45, and six photos of Shireen Baratheon, a black-haired, blue-eyed girl of 13.  There was also a photo of a woman with dark red hair who looked to be about 40 years old.

“I know the basics of what’s happening from what you said on the phone, but I need to know in detail everything that’s happened,” Jon said.

“I arrived home from work at my foundation at a quarter past eight yesterday evening,” Stannis replied.  “Both Selyse and Shireen were already gone.  Some of their luggage was missing, as well as some personal belongings.  The house looked as it normally does; there wasn’t any sign of a break in.  Shireen’s phone had been left behind.  She’s never without it, just like any teenager.”

“What about Mrs. Baratheon’s phone?” Jon asked.

“It’s gone,” Stannis said.  “I’ve tried calling her two dozen times, and there’s no answer.”

“Does it go straight to voicemail, or does it ring a few times?”

“It rings.  There’s just no answer.”

Jon asked for Selyse’s phone number, and took out his own phone and dialed Sam.  “Hey Sam, can you run a trace on a cell phone for me?”  He gave Sam the number, and Sam dropped a pin to Jon’s phone with the traced location.  He held the phone with the map displayed for Stannis to see.

“Does this location look familiar to you?” Jon asked.

“No,” Stannis replied.

“Have you received any demands or other contact from anyone who may have kidnapped them?”

Stannis ground his teeth.  “No,” he said.  “I don’t know if they were both kidnapped.  I think Shireen was, but I think that Selyse might have left voluntarily.”

“You think she’s involved with the cult?” Jon asked, incredulous.

“Yes,” Stannis said.  “She was always tight-lipped about it, but ever since we left the Red Keep, she hasn’t been the same.  She’s been spending time with this woman named Melisandre.”  He pointed at the photograph of the red-headed woman.  “Melisandre is a priestess of R’hllor, the red god of the east.  It’s a common enough religion in Essos, but the sect that Melisandre belongs to is extremist and still believes in the old ways of their religion.  They have been rumored to burn people alive, especially non-believers.”

“Considering that Shireen was unwilling to go with them, I take it she isn’t a believer in the red god,” Jon said.

“She’s not,” Stannis replied.

“This combined with the fact that they haven’t made any demands makes it imperative that we find your daughter immediately, Mr. President,” Jon said.  “In a kidnapping for ransom, I wouldn’t usually recommend involving the police, but in this case, it’s the best strategy.”

“A kidnapping would have the federal police get involved,” Stannis replied angrily.  “I’m sure you can see why I wouldn’t trust them to safely retrieve my daughter.  Best case scenario, they would see to it that my family was embarrassed by this as much as possible.  And I can think of much worse outcomes than that.”

Jon saw in that moment that while Stannis had called Jon to help, he didn’t trust him.  That made perfect sense.  Stannis had been up in the polls by several points just weeks prior to the election, and those points didn’t disappear magically.  Jon had systematically eliminated them, and Stannis knew it.  By the day of the election, the two candidates were running neck and neck.  Pundits had nonetheless predicted that Stannis would prevail, but the pundits had been wrong.

Jon leaned forward and replied to Stannis in a tone that allowed no argument.  “President Baratheon, what we were before today doesn’t matter.  You’re my client now.  My first priority is getting your wife and daughter back safely.  My second priority is managing the political fallout and how this is covered by the media.  You can be assured that I will do both of those things as well as I can.  I know how you feel about me, but if we’re going to be successful, we have to trust each other.  You know what’s at stake.  You know what I can do.”

Stannis ground his teeth again.  “You’re the best,” he said bitterly.  “Don’t I know it.”

***

Robb was surprised to see that Director Mormont and his agents had already been hard at work on the trafficking case and had made significant progress.  Mormont showed them the board they had on the case, including photos of several suspects believed to be involved with the trafficking ring.  It went far beyond Nileya and the girls that had been in the house with her.

“We’ve identified several houses where we think trafficking victims are being held,” Mormont said.  “We’re planning raids on them, including the one where the girl who came to your office was being held.  I’d like to see what you have, though.”

Robb gave Mormont a folder they had prepared with notes from talking to Nileya and the information they had gathered on the case.”  Mormont went through the folder.

“This will be useful,” he said.  “It’s for the best this was brought to the Night’s Watch; we’ve found several KLPD officers that we suspect are associated with the traffickers.”

They reviewed the case and Mormont asked Robb some questions about Nileya.  “It will probably be necessary to have Nileya come in and speak with one of my agents.  I have some people who speak Valyrian if she needs a translator.”  Robb gave Mormont Arya’s number so he could arrange to meet with Nileya.

“I’ll keep JSA informed on our progress,” Mormont said.  “We’re going to get these scum and put them away.”

***

Jon and Sansa both worked on researching the Lord of Light cult, its members, and past activities.  This wasn’t the first time that the cult had attempted to brainwash a spouse a of someone powerful for their own purposes.  There was a long history in Essos of such activities, including several kidnappings.  Sansa theorized their move to Westeros had less to do with the visions they claimed to see in flames and more to do with ditching the pursuit of law enforcement across the eastern continent.

Sansa also pored over email correspondence and phone records showing contact with cult members.  She flagged a few pages and tapped Jon to get his attention.  He looked at the emails that Sansa had flagged and raised his eyebrows.  He took the papers and went to the kitchen where Stannis was still trying his wife’s cell phone.

“Do you want to explain these emails to me?” Jon asked.  He handed Stannis the printouts.

The former president looked at the emails and sighed.  He stared out the window at the coast for a long moment and Jon thought perhaps Stannis wouldn’t answer him at all.  “It was only twice.  I regret it.  Melisandre is very charismatic; if you met her, you would understand.  It’s part of their religion.  I know it sounds insane, but she was convincing.  Selyse knew about it and actually encouraged me to continue having…”  Stannis grimaced and paused a second.  “…relations with her.  But I refused.  I came to my senses.  Selyse never did.”

To Stannis’ surprise, Jon gave him a sympathetic look.  It occurred to Jon that he was the last person who was in a position to judge someone for this sort of indiscretion.  “I understand,” Jon said.  “These people took advantage of you and your family at a time when they thought you would be vulnerable.  That being said, I can only help you as much as you’re honest with me.  I can’t protect you from hits that don’t see coming.  Is there anything else, anything at all, that you can tell me about your involvement with this cult?”

Stannis shook his head and handed the emails back to Jon.  “I’m going to call someone I know with the federal police,” Jon said.  “He’ll make sure that the agents assigned to the case are experienced with hostage situations and kidnappings, and that they understand they must be discreet and let me handle any media contact.”

Stannis pursed his lips.  “Of course you know someone with the federal police.  Who is it, I wonder.”

Ignoring Stannis’ annoyed tone, Jon replied simply.  “Director Grey Worm.”

“Why would one of President Targaryen’s close friends want to help me?” Stannis asked skeptically.

“Because I asked,” Jon said. 

Stannis remained unconvinced.  He shook his head miserably and tried to call Selyse again.  Jon decided to explain further.  He had thought before that an experienced politician like Stannis Baratheon would know these things, but then again Stannis hadn’t faced much personal scandal in his life.  That had been the forte of his brother Robert.  Robert had caused nearly enough scandal for the whole Baratheon family with his affairs and drinking.  Stannis had always been the quiet one of the family.

“I know you might be doubting my plan, but it really is the best approach,” Jon said.  “If you were on your own, your options would be limited to hoping Mrs. Baratheon answers the phone or calling the local police.  If you called the police, the press would beat the cops here.  They would hear the call on their police scanners or the dispatcher might tip them off.  While the police figured out what to do, the cult would have time to move your family or worse.  The harassment from reporters would eventually rattle you and you might say something it would be best to not say.  Indelicate questions would be asked.  There would be no way to keep control over the situation.” 

Jon could see that Stannis was understanding him now.  “This way, we’re in control.  By the time the cult finds out you’ve called the authorities, agents will be at their doorstep.  I’ll be here to deal with the media and make sure they’re satisfied enough to not harass you without revealing anything that would endanger your family or cause embarrassment.”

They heard a car pull up, and Jon was worried that somehow the press had already found out about the kidnapping.  He looked outside and was relieved to see that it was his ex-girlfriend Myrcella Baratheon and not a reporter.  Stannis hadn’t mentioned talking to his niece about the kidnapping, but it made more sense now that Stannis had called him.  Jon barely had time to open the door all the way when Myrcella hugged him fiercely. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Myrcella said.  She looked different from her usual polished self and Jon thought she looked as though she’d been crying.  “When Uncle Stannis told me Shireen and Selyse were missing and he thought they’d been taken, I yelled at him until he agreed to call you.  I got here as soon as I could.”

When Myrcella let go of Jon, Sansa embraced Myrcella.  “We’re happy to help,” Sansa said.

Myrcella and Jon had kept in touch over the years, although Jon hadn’t seen her in person in quite a while.  They had dated throughout law school, but life had taken them in different directions after graduation.  As break-ups went, it had been amiable.  Jon had returned to the North, and Myrcella had settled in the Westerlands, recently having been elected to represent the province in the senate.

Jon smiled reassuringly at her.  “I never got to say congratulations, Senator Baratheon.  Don’t worry, we’re going to get your cousin and aunt back safely.”

Myrcella’s green eyes shone with ferocity.  “I know you will.”  She shook her head in disbelief.  “I just can’t believe this is happening.  How does the wife of a president get mixed up in a cult?  Poor Shireen.  She must be so scared.”

Jon regarded her sympathetically.  “This cult likes to target prominent people.  They have a lot of experience with it in Essos.”

Jon called Grey Worm, and it wasn’t long before the house was swarmed with police.  Jon sat with Stannis, who was answering questions for the lead agent on the scene.  Some agents remained at the Baratheon home to continue investigating, while others went out to the location of Selyse’s phone.  Jon’s phone rang, and when he saw who was calling, he asked Sansa to take his place so he could take the call.

“How much trouble can we expect down there?  Armed standoff at a cult compound?  Tell me what’s going on, Jon” Tyrion asked, forgoing any standard greeting.

Jon had been expecting this call.  Grey Worm had said that while the media wouldn’t hear a peep that didn’t come from Jon himself, he at least needed to tell the Red Keep what was going on.  Jon had thought that was reasonable enough.  “Let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that,” Jon replied.

“I need something to tell the president,” Tyrion said irritably.  “And she isn’t going to be happy that you’ve gone over to the enemy.”

“It’s not like that, Tyrion,” Jon said.  “You know damn well how delicate situations like this are and someone needs to handle it.  That someone is me.  It’s nothing that would involve a conflict of interest.  It’s for everyone’s benefit that this is resolved in the best way possible.  Look, there’s a lot that needs to be done here and I don’t have anything to tell you yet anyway.”

“Missandei is almost certainly going to be asked about this in a few hours,” Tyrion said.  “What is she supposed to say?”

“Ask her to direct media inquiries to me,” Jon said.  “That would really be a big help.  I have to go.”  He hung up and saw Stannis was looking at him, the agent having finished with questioning for the moment.

“Was that Lannister?” Stannis asked scowling. 

“Tyrion, yes,” Jon said.  “They’ll stay out of our hair.  It would look bad for them to interfere.”  Jon looked out the window and spotted several news vans.  Stannis cursed under his breath.

“I’ll handle them,” Jon said confidently.  “It was just a matter of time before a neighbor or some passerby alerted them to all the police here.  We had the advantage of lead time, and Grey assured me there wouldn’t be any leaks coming from their end.  Agents have already surrounded the compound.  The press will only know what I tell them.  Just wait here, and if you need anything, send Sansa out, okay?”

Jon walked out the door to the sound of a dozen reporters hurling questions at him.

***

At the president’s direction, Tyrion had coordinated with Trystane and his staff in the Red Keep on the creation of a program to help the victims of human trafficking and a presidential task force to combat police corruption.  Tyrion was hesitant to embrace the president’s suggestion of having Trystane lead the charge on these initiatives, but Daenerys had insisted that Trystane wanted to be more involved in her administration and was capable of managing these rather small but important projects.

“Trystane hasn’t involved himself much in political matters in the past, Madame President,” Tyrion had said diplomatically.  “May I ask what’s brought on the change?  Not that it is unwelcome, but it is different.”

Daenerys held up her hands in appeasement.  “I know, okay?  He says he wants more responsibility.  These are fairly straightforward matters that shouldn’t present much difficulty for him.  You’ll be there to help him, and he’ll get the attention that he obviously wants.”

Tyrion understood and smiled.  _Martell has finally tired of doing nothing but smiling and waving and kissing babies, it seems_ , Tyrion thought.  _A little ambition isn’t a bad thing, I suppose_.  “What office is he running for?”

Daenerys rolled her eyes.  “Mayor of Karhold if we’re lucky.  It would get him out of my hair.”  Tyrion laughed.  “Honestly, I don’t know,” Daenerys continued.  “I didn’t find it important enough to ask and he didn’t volunteer the information.”

Today they would be announcing the launch of both initiatives in a press conference while Daenerys left for the day to visit peach orchards in the Reach.  Tyrion thought that would give Trystane whatever opportunity he was looking for.  It was also a good thing for the president to get out of the capital and spend time with the people.  Many elected officials in Westeros neglected this, and to their peril, Tyrion thought.  Daenerys’ image as a “woman of the people” had been carefully crafted during the campaign by Jon Snow, and Tyrion had to admit it had been very effective.  “‘ _All politics is local’ is a common saying among pundits, but it’s true.  You really do need to go out there and talk to the people and find out what their concerns are, and then address them_ ,” Jon had said.  Daenerys hadn’t forgotten.  She made it a point to visit each of the provinces whenever she could.

Tyrion was on his way to the briefing room when he spotted Shae.  Startled, he pulled her into a side office. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Shae smiled sweetly and swung her press badge back and forth on its lanyard.  “I’m a member of the press, dear husband.  I’m going to a press briefing.”

“Here?  In the Red Keep?  I thought we had talked about this.”  Tyrion was careful not to raise his voice with so many reporters around.

“We did,” Shae said.  “We also talked about you not working 90-hour weeks anymore and we talked about having children.  Those things didn’t happen either.”

“Shae, dearest,” Tyrion said carefully.  “I am the Hand to the President.  I can’t control how many hours I work.  The president still hasn’t appointed a new communications director, and it doesn’t appear that she plans to.  Missandei can’t do her job and Jon’s without help from me.  I’m trying to run a country.  Do you really want to have children now, when I would never be able to see them?  When you would have to do everything yourself?”

Shae ran her hand through Tyrion’s hair and tilted his chin up to look at her.  “Just as I can’t control where the network assigns me to work.  If my boss says, ‘go to the Red Keep, Shae,’ then I must go.  I cannot stay home all day by myself with nothing to do; I was losing my mind.  If you were ever at home, you would know.”

Tyrion sighed.  He knew that there was no point in arguing with Shae and that she would do as she wished.  He would have to speak with Daenerys about appointing a new communications director, again.  He wasn’t looking forward to it.  There was no sorer point with the president than her missing communications director and lover.  He shook his head.  “I have to get to the briefing.  We’ll talk about this later.”  Shae leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, then was the first to depart from the office.

Tyrion and Trystane waited to the side while Missandei handled her briefing.  After addressing the short list of subjects that she had to make statements on, she then fielded some questions about the rumors regarding the possible kidnapping of the former president’s wife and daughter.  Tyrion was still flabbergasted that a serious, unforgiving man like Stannis Baratheon could be hoodwinked by a cult.  Selyse Baratheon, perhaps – she had always seemed a bit unhinged – but Stannis had always seemed so implacable, so steady.  It was hard to believe.

“Is the former first lady involved with the cult members?” Shae asked.  Tyrion avoided looking in his wife’s direction.  The Red Keep correspondents would be quick to jump on the slightest perceived favoritism towards the Hand’s wife.  Shae, naturally, had seen to it she would be the first to be called upon, to Tyrion’s irritation. 

“The president is unable to comment on unconfirmed rumors at this time, but I can tell you that we are we are monitoring the situation and will of course aid the Baratheon family in any way necessary at this difficult time,” Missandei said.  “Former President Baratheon and his family are in our thoughts and prayers.  I have to direct any other questions you may have on the matter to the family’s spokesperson in this matter, Jon Snow.”

“Were the Baratheons members of the Lord of Light cult while President Baratheon was in office?” Ned Dayne asked.  _Watch out for that one_ , Jon had told him after the Doreah debacle.  Dayne wasn’t a regular attendee of the Red Keep briefing room, but he was a regular in Arya Stark’s bed, Tyrion had been informed.  He had laughed when Varys had shared that bit of info with him.  Apparently, Jon was having the same complications with media entanglements in the private sector as Tyrion was in the public one.

“Asked and answered,” Missandei responded.  _Not quite_ , Tyrion thought, amused.  He loved how deftly Missandei handled the press.  Dayne didn’t even look mad.

After a few more similar questions, she announced that Trystane would be making a statement.  Because there were visual aids to be used, an aide clipped a cordless microphone to Trystane’s jacket.

Tyrion thought that the press conference was a success, and the media reaction to both initiatives sounded positive.  Trystane had managed to answer the questions accurately and without letting the reporters rattle him or get him off track.  Tyrion thought that perhaps he had been too hasty in his earlier judgments about letting Trystane handle this.  After the press conference wrapped up, they both retreated to the press secretary’s office while Missandei met privately with a few reporters near the back of the briefing room.

“That went well,” Tyrion said.  “I think the press liked your presentation.  It should garner some positive attention for these projects.”  _Not that there are protesters outside the castle walls demanding that the president overlook the plight of trafficked girls or turn a blind eye to police corruption_ , Tyrion thought.

“And for me, you mean,” Trystane scoffed.  “Is that why Daenerys has you babysitting me?  Don’t worry, I’m not Jon Snow; I’m not trying to suck my own cock.”

Tyrion tried and failed to stifle a laugh.  Jon might be his friend, but he was a media whore, and everyone knew it.

Missandei ran into the office, her face apoplectic.  She grabbed Trystane’s microphone off his coat and switched it off angrily.  “Your mic is hot!” she hissed.

Trystane’s face turned a color Tyrion didn’t think was possible for a Dornishman’s face to turn.  “Fuck me,” Trystane exclaimed.

Tyrion squinted at him furiously.  _Of all the stupid fucking things to do_ , Tyrion thought.  “I think that’s probably enough profanity from you for one day.”

Maybe it wasn’t a good day for Daenerys to be out picking peaches after all, Tyrion thought.

***

The 100-story Frey Tower was the second-tallest building in King’s Landing and was home to Frey Petroleum’s main office in the Crownlands.  Rising from the high point of Visenya’s Hill, the imposing black skyscraper with its iconic steel X-bracing and enormous twin antennae seemed to Willas Tyrell to be a natural setting for a notorious organization like Frey Petroleum.   Although the company’s official headquarters remained near House Frey’s ancestral home on the Green Fork of the Trident in the Riverlands, Frey Petroleum’s President and CEO, Walder Frey, could often be found working in his Frey Tower office.

Since President Targaryen had taken office, it was even more common to find Frey in the capital.  The infamous CEO had been a staunch supporter of the future president during the general election campaign and had contributed heartily to the Targaryen/Lannister ticket.  Willas thought it a little odd, as he didn’t see how their political ideologies aligned, but sometimes politics make for strange bedfellows.  In this case, both Frey and Targaryen had found themselves in bed with House Lannister, a formidable political force in its own right.  Frey’s contributions had paid off handsomely, and capital insiders whispered that Frey had the ear of the president.  Government contracts and endorsements of pipeline projects had come much more easily to Frey Petroleum under the Targaryen Administration than that of Stannis Baratheon.

Standing at the back of the black granite, stainless steel, and mirrored elevator, Willas waited impatiently to arrive at Walder Frey’s office on the 95th floor.  When he finally arrived and was bid to wait by a receptionist, he was momentarily stunned by the panoramic views of the Blackwater Rush, the Red Keep on Aegon’s High Hill, and Blackwater Bay.  The building’s unique exterior didn’t interfere with the view from this floor the way one might expect it would.

“Mr. Tyrell?” the receptionist interrupted his reverie.  “Mr. Frey will see you now.”

Walder Frey’s office was imposing in the fashion of the building that housed it, sleek and modern with black granite, steel, and glass surfaces.  A large painting depicting the ancient castles comprising the Twins of the Crossing, long ago destroyed, took up much of one wall to the side of Frey’s desk.

Walder Frey himself was not as imposing as his office and his tower.  An ugly old man, Frey could almost be said to look disheveled in spite of his enormous wealth.  Appearances could deceive, Willas knew.  Walder Frey might be badly in need of a haircut and he might have yellow teeth, but he was notoriously ruthless and said to be prickly by nature.

“District Attorney Willas Tyrell,” the old man rasped mockingly.  “I heard you were still licking your wounds after bungling the case against the Gulltown Bomber.  You made quite the mess of that case, I’ve been told.  Heh heh.  What brings you to my doorstep?”

“It is about the Skytech bombing, in fact,” Willas said.  “Do you know Chella Blackear?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Frey answered quickly.  _Too quickly_ , Willas thought _.  If you are telling the truth, you don’t have to remember what to say_.

“That’s odd,” Willas said.  “I reviewed her phone records prior to the bombing, and they show that Blackear placed 11 calls to your head of security in the week before she died.”

“Quite the mystery,” Frey said impassively.

“I thought so,” Willas said.  “Frey Petroleum doesn’t have any contracts with Skytech and never has.  Why would Blackear be calling your head of security?”

“I’ve no idea,” Frey said.  “I also have no idea why you’re investigating a case that’s been dismissed, especially considering that you’ve been suspended from your position as district attorney.”

Willas didn’t react to the insult.  “Could I speak with your head of security?  Maybe he could clear this up.  I’m sure that there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“Certainly,” Frey said.  “You’re welcome to return with a warrant or a subpoena and you can speak with him all you’d like.”

“I had hoped it could be on an informal basis,” Willas said.  No judge was going to issue a subpoena for a dismissed case.

Frey leaned back in his chair, amused.  “He wouldn’t be much of a head of security if he didn’t keep things secure, now would he?  Heh heh.”

Willas knew then that he wouldn’t get anywhere with Frey.  He got up and smiled.  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Frey.”

Frey rose, and they shook hands.  His shrewd eyes glinted at Willas.  “Pleasure.”

***

Daenerys sat down at a picnic table with Irri and the peach farmers she was visiting.  Daenerys didn’t usually like events that were mere photo ops, but she did like meeting her constituents, and there was pie.  It was nice to get away from King’s Landing in any case.  One of the farmers offered her a slice of pie, and she gratefully accepted with a smile.  She was starved.

She heard Irri take a sharp breath right before she whispered, “Madame President!”  She passed her phone to Daenerys.  After quickly scrolling through the short KL Herald article, she politely excused herself and looked forlornly at her fresh slice of pie.  It would have to wait.

The article had an accompanying audio clip, which she listened to once she was far away enough for anyone but her guards to hear.  _Stupid motherfucker_ , she thought as she angrily tapped in a phone number and pressed send.

“Irri, what is it, we’re dealing with a situation here,” Trystane answered.  Daenerys had forgotten for a moment she had Irri’s phone.

“Looks like it, you gods damned idiot,” Daenerys hissed.  “What kind of amateur doesn’t know his mic is still hot?”

“Calm your tits, Daenerys,” Trystane said, completely unapologetic.  “Tyrion and I are dealing with this.  Eat your peaches and relax.”

“I heard Tyrion laughing his ass off,” Daenerys said.  “You can tell him he’s fucked too, when I get back there.”

“It’s not his fault.”  Trystane had the nerve to laugh.  “It was funny.  You have to admit it, come on.”

Daenerys was sorely tempted to regale Trystane with all manner of cutting remarks that occurred to her in that moment, but she resisted the urge.  Someone had to be the adult here.  She was trying to run a country, and here she was being distracted by juvenile comments about cock-sucking.

“For crying out loud, Trystane,” Daenerys exclaimed, exasperated.  “You said you wanted to be more involved.  Get some attention for yourself.  I was very accommodating.  I gave you two easy, media-friendly things to handle.  I even politely left town so that all eyes would be on you.  You managed to fuck it all up.  But you know what is actually funny?”

“What?” Trystane asked, still laughing a bit.

It was Daenerys’ turn to laugh.  “Now you have to make a public apology, saying you regret your rude comments.  That should be fun for you.  What makes it even better is that I’m quite sure that Jon found your idiotic statement as hilarious as you seem to find it, but the press will still make a show of expecting a heart-felt mea culpa.”

Sullen silence was now the only thing coming from the other end of the call.  “Chin up, husband,” Daenerys said glibly.  “The media loves nothing better than covering a politician having to admit he shit the bed.  Got to go; my pie is getting cold.”

***

Jon and Stannis waited impatiently to receive news from the agents who had gone out to find Selyse and Shireen Baratheon.  Finally, Jon’s phone rang.

“The cult members must have known that federal police had found their location, because when the agents arrived on the scene, the entire compound had been set on fire,” Grey Worm explained.  “The cult had already fled with Selyse Baratheon, but Shireen managed to escape in the confusion.  When she saw flashing lights, she ran out of the woods from the other side of the road.  She appears to be uninjured, but some of my agents have taken her to the hospital in Storm’s End as a precaution.  The other agents are continuing to track down where the cult went with Mrs. Baratheon.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Grey,” Jon said.  Jon looked at his watch.  8:55 p.m.  The hospital was five minutes away.  _Perfect_ , Jon thought.  “We’re on our way to the hospital now; we’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Stannis stared at Jon expectantly, his face still grim.  “That was Director Worm,” Jon said.  “Shireen is safe; we can go to the hospital now to pick her up.  She’s just there as a precaution.”

Stannis looked relieved.  “What about Selyse?”

“She’s still with the cult members; agents are going after them.” Jon said.  “We need to leave at exactly nine and use your car that’s in the garage.  The reporters will all be distracted giving live reports from the scene which they always do at the top of the hour.  That will allow us to leave without having to answer any questions until we’re safely back with Shireen.  I’ll leave Sansa here to keep watch over the reporters and the agents that are still here and she’ll let us know if there are any problems.”

Jon waited for the cameramen’s floodlights to switch on signaling the top of the hour broadcast, and when he saw them turn on from the garage door windows, he pressed the button to open the door.  The reporters noticed the car leaving, but it was enough distraction to let Jon get down the driveway and out on the road.

***

After catching a few hours of sleep at a hotel in Storm’s End, Jon and Sansa set out for the return trip to King’s Landing.  Jon gripped the steering wheel with one hand and an enormous cup of black coffee in the other.  Sansa nibbled at a butter croissant and sipped at an iced white mocha as she watched the Stormlands countryside pass by as they made their way north on the SL-99.

Sansa usually listened to music on long drives, but the dulcet sound of news talk radio was the ubiquitous audio accompaniment to any journeys in Ghost.  This day was no exception.

_“Today’s top story is the dramatic kidnapping and successful rescue of former President Stannis Baratheon’s 13-year-old daughter Shireen Baratheon.  Former First Lady Selyse Baratheon and Shireen disappeared from their Storm’s End home and were reportedly taken by members of the extremist Essosi R’hllor group, the Lord of Light.  Federal police continue to search for Mrs. Baratheon and the cult members responsible for the abduction, including alleged cult leader Melisandre of Asshai.  Agents arrived yesterday afternoon at the cult’s Stormlands compound to find the entire compound had been set on fire.  Shireen was found unharmed near the compound property.”_

_“When asked about the incident, Baratheon family spokesperson Jon Snow expressed gratitude to the federal police who handled the case._ The station then played a clip of Jon’s statement to the press the night before after returning to the former president’s home with Shireen. _“‘We are extremely grateful to both the federal police agents who have brought Shireen back home safely and Director Grey Worm for his attention to this case.  President Baratheon asks for your prayers for his wife Selyse, who remains missing.  We are confident that the perpetrators of this heinous act will be brought to justice and ask that any person with information contact the federal police.  The family asks for privacy during this trying time so that Shireen can recover from this horrific ordeal.’”_

The reporter continued.  _“It is unknown at this time how the former first family came to be targeted by the cult, but sources familiar with the Lord of Light say that the group has a long history of harassment and kidnappings of prominent people in the Free Cities.  We will keep you posted on this developing story.  We will be back with traffic and weather after these messages from our sponsors.  This is Jocelyn Penrose for StormTalk AM 630, the Stormlands’ premier news talk radio and your home for breaking news at the top and bottom of every hour.”_

Sansa smiled.  “Another crisis successfully managed,” she commented drolly.  “Do you think they’ll find Selyse Baratheon?”

Jon sucked down a healthy amount of his coffee.  “They’re not going to find someone they’re not looking for.”

Sansa cocked an eyebrow.  “Did Stannis tell them to stop looking?”

“Of course not,” Jon replied.  “What worried, loving husband would?  He was preoccupied hiring the security detail for his daughter that I advised him to get, so I had to tell the federal police how the family wished to proceed.  Which is to say, the family wishes for this ugly incident to be behind it, immediately.”

“So Stannis is content to let his wife run away with some Essosi cult?  Is that the truth?” Sansa asked.

Jon turned the radio volume down to the point where it was nearly inaudible.  “The truth is what I say it is.”

***

“Are you going to tell us why you’ve dragged us all down here in the middle of the night?” Trystane asked rudely.

Walder Frey chuckled.  “I see someone is above meeting with me now that he’s moved into the Red Keep.  Strange, you were always so pleased to see me when I was pumping millions of dragons into your wife’s presidential campaign.  Now you’re too good to be seen with me.”

Trystane scowled and sat down in one of the chairs around the small conference table in Walder Frey’s dimly lit office.  “I just want to know what this is about.  Can you blame me for being concerned?”

“I’ll be happy to explain when everyone is here,” Walder said.  “I hate repeating myself.”  Tyrion thought to himself that it was probably just a matter of Frey not thinking that Martell was worth wasting breath on, but then again, no one could say for sure what the old weasel was thinking.

Olenna rolled her eyes dramatically and addressed Trystane from her seat at the conference table next to him, her tone derisive and frivolous.  “Trystane, dear.  You need to relax.  It’s not as if this meeting is taking you away from pressing business.  Unless you consider embarrassing yourself on television pressing.”

Trystane shot her a venomous glare.  “Very funny, but my absence will be noted.”  He cracked his knuckles nervously.  “The longer this takes, the more notable it is.  The press isn’t going to just ignore the disappearance of one of the most powerful men in Westeros from the Red Keep,” he bit out through clenched teeth.

Olenna laughed irreverently.  “Being powerful is like being a lady, Trystane.  If you have to tell people you are, you aren’t.”

Tyrion would usually laugh at a jest like that, but he was too wound up.  Not unlike Trystane, he supposed.  He rapped a pen against the table and stared out the dark window at the city lights, glancing down about once every twenty seconds to look at his watch.  When Trystane opened his mouth to object once more to the wait for the meeting’s last attendee to arrive, Tyrion cut him off rudely.  “Can you not?”

After a few minutes of the four sitting in angry silence, the door opened.  Jon closed the door behind him and sat down at the conference table.  He glanced at the four others, folded his hands, and leaned forward.

“I hear we have a Willas Tyrell issue,” he said evenly.

“That we do, Jon,” Walder said.  “That we do.”


	10. This World Is Mine For The Taking, Make Me King.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get out of hand at Walder Frey's office. Willas makes a decision about his professional future. Myrcella makes an offer. JSA gets a fresh face. A girl goes missing. An international incident creates tension within the Red Keep. Shae is offered a story. Robb and Rhaenys snub the capital's dining offerings. Jon reflects on a choice that he made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is from "Lose Yourself" by Eminem. You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).
> 
> My apologies for the delay in getting this chapter out; it turned out to be a beast. Also, I have bumped up the rating out of an overabundance of caution for some content in this chapter, which is a bit more explicit than previous chapters.

Chapter 10

“This World Is Mine For The Taking, Make Me King.”

 

The tension in Walder Frey’s office could be cut with a knife.  Jon felt that in circumstances like these, keeping one’s cool was even more important than usual.  It wasn’t the normal human way of reacting to a crisis.  In Jon’s experience, people typically lost their composure in a crisis, and that’s when one needs it the most. 

Frey looked calm enough but had a glint in his eye that Jon had the good sense to recognize as dangerous, knowing Walder Frey as he did.  Tyrion had looked panicked when Jon arrived, but had relaxed slightly.  _That’s a good sign_ , he thought.  _Tyrion knows enough to know that I can handle this_.  It would mean less trouble and less time spent arguing.  Trystane looked like he was ready to explode; that was most likely a combination of the circumstances and just plain not liking Jon’s face.  He would be trouble, Jon thought.  Olenna seemed relaxed.  He had never seen the tough old bitch anything less than completely in control.

“Now can you tell us what’s going on?” Trystane asked Walder.  “Before the Red Keep press corps puts my face on a milk carton?”

“I called you all here because Willas Tyrell came here to my office,” Walder said.  “He is investigating the link between Frey Petroleum and Skytech.  You all know that if he finds that link, we’re all going to prison.  I have no intention of allowing that to happen.”

“Are you perhaps regretting your quite ill-advised decision to blow up that building?” Olenna asked acidly.  “Tyrell would have nothing to investigate if you hadn’t.  A decision, mind you, on which you did not consult any of us.”

“I did you all a favor,” Walder said carelessly.  “If you and Jon hadn’t decided to play the hero and get that Flowers kid off the hook for it, it would have worked perfectly.  Chella Blackear was a threat.  Now she isn’t,” he hissed.  “And I don’t think that _I_ need to remind _you_ that we all jumped off this bridge together.  Seven hells, we held hands.”

Jon raised an eyebrow in disbelief.  “I didn’t.”

Walder chuckled.  “No, no.  Not the White Wolf.  Too pure for the likes of us.  Too good for this wicked world.  No, you just covered it up.  I doubt the Justice Department would care about the distinction, but you go on and cling to that fig leaf if you need to.”

Tyrion huffed in frustration.  “None of this is relevant to the important question tonight, which is what we are going to do now.”

Trystane glowered at Walder.  “I think it’s perfectly relevant.  I, for one, would like Walder to kindly explain why he thought it would be better to blow up a gods-damned building rather than pay a few million dragons in hush money.  It’s not like he can’t afford it.”

Walder laughed.  “I see that as usual it doesn’t even occur to you to spend your own money.  You see me as nothing more than a bottomless money pit.”

Jon sat quietly for a minute while the four talked over each other, hurling insults and accusations.

“Enough,” Jon said loudly.  The group quieted.  “This Willas Tyrell problem.  I’ll fix it.  Just like I fixed this entire pointless endeavor to begin with.  I told you it wouldn’t be necessary, and just as I said, it wasn’t.  But here we are.  So I’ll clean this up, just like I cleaned up all your messes, not the least of which was the Skytech bombing.”

Trystane’s face twisted in anger.  “Have you forgotten that fucking recording, Snow?  It seems to me that _I_ was one to clean that up for _you_.  Like I’m your fucking jizz mopper, you cunt.  Once you’re able to keep your gods damned prick in your pants, then talk to me about all the messes you cleaned up for me.”

Trystane had clearly forgotten he was in mixed company when Walder’s stunned look quickly turned to uncontrolled laughter.  Olenna merely raised an eyebrow and smirked at Jon.  Tyrion buried his face in his hands.  Trystane realized his error but reacted with a smug look that Jon was incredibly tempted to slap off his face.

The first rule of crisis management is to stay calm, collected, and in control.  It was a rule that Jon had never broken.  Until now.

Jon leaned forward towards Trystane and glared at him contemptuously, his words dripping with venom.  “Maybe if you weren’t such a philandering jackass desperate to stick your pox-covered pencil dick into every vacuous slattern from Dorne to the Wall, your wife wouldn’t have abandoned your bed to fuck her campaign manager and she’d still be faking it with you.  She’d probably have an Academy Award for it by now.”

Trystane turned as red as a lobster from his hairline to his collar.  He jumped out of his chair, balled his hands tightly into fists, and rounded the table towards Jon. 

“You bastard son-of-a-whore,” Trystane shouted.  He clumsily threw a punch at Jon’s face as Jon rose from his chair.  Jon barely seemed to notice being hit and as Trystane went to punch him again, Jon curled his right hand into a fist and batted Trystane’s arm away.  With his left hand, he grabbed Trystane roughly by the throat.

Squeezing just tightly enough that Trystane couldn’t break out of Jon’s grip, Jon stared at him, his eyes cold and dangerous.  “You don’t want this.  Not with me.”  Trystane narrowed his eyes and started to open his mouth.  Jon cut him off, speaking slowly and deliberately.  “Think carefully about what you want to say to me, Martell.  I have a feeling that you’re about to make a serious mistake.”

Trystane shut his mouth and unclenched his fists.  Jon released him, shoving him backwards toward the wall as he did.  “Sit down and keep your mouth shut,” Jon commanded.  Trystane glowered but did as he was told. 

Jon sat down, his face impassive.  He cleared his throat.  “Where were we?”

Tyrion gaped.  “What in the actual fuck?”

Walder was unmoved.  “You were saying that you would fix this Willas Tyrell issue.  If you want to do that, fine.  But if your humane mousetrap fails, just keep in mind I have no problem dealing with him myself.”

Jon met Walder’s eyes dispassionately.  “Consider it handled.”

***

Attorney General Edmure Tully’s office exuded masculinity, almost aggressively so.  The walls were paneled in rich mahogany.  A large red, blue, and silver carpet covered the floor under the sitting area consisting of large dark brown leather sofas and a heavy oak and glass coffee table.  The other side of the office was taken up by an enormous oak desk and bookcases with law books and displays of models of ships.  An elk’s head hung over the desk.  Willas wasn’t sure if Edmure enjoyed this type of décor, or if he was trying to make some kind of point.  Either way, the office was hideous.

“Willas!” Edmure greeted him brightly.  “I’m glad you could make it.  Have a seat.”

Willas was skeptical, but he sat on one of the sofas.  “It’s no trouble for me to come here, Edmure, but if you called me here to fire me, I wouldn’t have been offended if you had just said so over the phone.  I know you’re busy.”

Edmure looked aghast.  “Fire you?  No!  Of course not.  I wanted you to come in because I’m taking you off suspension, immediately.  You’re my best district attorney; you know that.  In fact, I want to assign you as lead DA to a high-profile case that I really need your help on.  It’s a police corruption case that the Night’s Watch is investigating, and word is that President Targaryen is very invested in the outcome of the case.  I need my best DA on it.”

Willas was confused.  Just a few days before, Edmure had been screaming at him right here in this very office about how incompetent he was.  “It sounds like an important case.  I appreciate your faith in me,” Willas said carefully.

“I just want to put this ugly business with Flowers, Skytech, and Jon Snow behind us,” Edmure said.  “Far behind us.  Are you ready to do that?  We need our full focus on the future.”

Willas was starting to get the picture.  _Frey might have advised him to be a little less obvious_ , he thought.  But it was fine.  It’s not as if a fired district attorney could take on Walder Frey.  That much was clear from this meeting.

“Yes,” Willas said decisively.  “It’s time to move forward.”

***

Silverwing was a rare sort of restaurant in King’s Landing.  It was expensive without being ostentatious, and as such, attracted people who would like to eat a nice meal in peace without being ogled by reporters and paparazzi.  Jon found that as much as people of note claimed to be irritated by media attention, they usually craved it and would seek it out at the flashy establishments of the capital.  Silverwing wasn’t the place for that.  Silverwing was a place to quietly enjoy the views of Blackwater Bay, the best wine list in Westeros, and a perfectly cooked steak. 

The hostess recognized Jon when he walked in and escorted him to his usual table near the floor to ceiling plate glass windows overlooking Blackwater Bay.  “The senator has already arrived, Mr. Snow,” the hostess said as she walked Jon to the table.  “Can I bring you anything?”

“Not quite yet,” Jon said, sitting down across from Myrcella.  “I’ll have a look at the wine list.  Thanks, Jeyne.”  The hostess smiled and returned to her post near the entrance.

“Silverwing, hmm?” Myrcella said teasingly.  “If I didn’t know you better, Jon Snow, I’d say you didn’t anyone seeing you with me.”

Jon laughed.  “I mostly come here because it’s the only place in King’s Landing where the chef understands what ‘medium-rare’ means.  I don’t mind having my photo taken, but the last time I went to the Landing, my steak practically mooed at me.”

“The Landing is okay for brunch,” Myrcella said.  “I wouldn’t recommend it at any other time, at least not for its food.  People watching is always good there, or you want to be noticed.”

“I’m not quite the media whore some people might like to say I am,” Jon said.  He grabbed the sweating square tumbler of ice water and took a sip.

Myrcella huffed in irritation.  “I know, right?  Trystane Martell is such a fucking asshole.”

“It’s fine,” Jon said.  He left out any mention of Trystane’s sad attempt to fight him or the reason why he had.  “I really don’t care.  If things like that bothered me, I’d be out of business.  He’s the one with egg on his face, anyway.  Poor Daenerys.”

The server came around to take their order and quickly returned with a bottle of Arbor Gold, uncorking it and offering the cork and a taste to Jon, who nodded.  The server filled their glasses, then left them alone again.

“Speaking of Daenerys, are you going to the president’s nameday gala?” Myrcella asked.

Jon groaned.  “Don’t remind me.  I tried to rope Arya or Sansa into going with me, but they wisely refused.  I can’t reasonably decline to go and going alone is a sure way to end up on the bad side of the gossip columns.”

Myrcella laughed.  “Poor, socially-awkward Jon Snow.  I’m sure Sansa and Arya suggested this, but did you consider taking an actual date with you?”  It had been several years since anyone could reasonably accuse Jon of being socially-awkward, but Jon didn’t try to refute the statement.

“That would just create more problems than it would solve,” Jon said.

“I can imagine,” Myrcella said.  She cocked an eyebrow at him.  “You wouldn’t want to ruin your girlfriend’s nameday.”

Jon nearly spit out his wine and Myrcella looked like she was about to burst out laughing.  He looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear, but no one was.  It was a secluded table, which was the reason it had become Jon’s favorite.  “What are you talking about?” Jon asked lowly.

“Calm down, your secret is safe with me,” Myrcella said casually.

“Who told you?” he asked.

“No one told me,” Myrcella said.  “I’m not an idiot, Jon.  We’ve known each other a long time.  I’ve seen the way you look at her, and she you.  I wondered, before, but when that tape came out, it confirmed it.  Trystane Martell is an excellent liar, but I grew up with politicians.  I know a lie when I hear one.  There is just no way that the great Daenerys Targaryen wailed like a slattern for a philandering slime-bucket like Trystane.  I imagine if he so much as laid a finger on her, she’d bite it off.  Plus…” she trailed off.

“What?” Jon pressed.

“Well, not to get graphic, but you kind of have a uh, _distinctive_ way of um,” she jerked her head to the side suggestively.  “Doing that.  You know.  Anyway, I don’t know how many other ex-girlfriends you have, but if they heard that tape, they likely suspect.”

“You can’t be serious,” Jon groaned.  He gulped down the rest of his glass of wine and poured another.  _Seven hells_ , he thought.  _There’s no way that’s true.  She must be making it up_.

“Relax,” she said soothingly.  “I only brought it up because I understand why you don’t want to take a real date to the gala.  I’d go with you, if you want.”

“I don’t know if that would really set her mind at ease,” Jon said.  “And wouldn’t you like to go with a real date?  I’m sure spending an evening with your ex who is a lousy dancer wouldn’t be much fun for you.”

She quirked a teasing half-smile at him.  “Maybe not, but at least I know the score and the gossip rags and capital blogs won’t be speculating about why the White Wolf has no she-wolf to dance with.  How else can express my appreciation for helping my uncle get my cousin back safely and avoid a PR disaster for my family?”

Jon wondered idly what Myrcella would think of the PR disaster that he had not so long ago threatened to cause for her family.  He had always known that the threat would be enough to bend Cersei to his will, but it hadn’t been a bluff.  There’s no room for mistakes in the crisis management business, and a bluff with a snake like Cersei Lannister would have been a fatal one.  If you pull a gun that you’re unwilling to fire, you’re done.  He was glad it hadn’t come to that for Myrcella’s sake.   

The server arrived with their food and Jon took a moment to admire his perfect rib-eye and roasted asparagus and to consider Myrcella’s proposition.  Once the server had left, Jon picked up his glass of Arbor Gold and swirled the wine in its glass.

“All good points, Senator,” Jon said.  “It would be my honor to escort you to the gala.”

***

“Mr. Flowers,” Jon greeted the young man with curly black hair waiting in his reception area.  “Thanks for coming in.”  They shook hands.  Jon noted that although his visitor was as pretty as a girl and only 21 years old, he had a firm grip.  “Follow me,” Jon said.

They walked to Jon’s office and sat down.  Jon had reviewed the many resumes submitted for the position of receptionist at JSA in response to the ad Arya had posted, and Satin Flowers was the only applicant Jon had wanted to interview.  He looked down at Satin’s resume and the background check Sam had run.

“We don’t really have a formal interview process, to be honest Mr. Flowers,” Jon began. “I felt you were the best candidate to interview; that’s why I asked you to come in for a meeting.  I just have a few questions.”

“Please call me Satin,” Satin said amiably.  “I’m happy to answer any questions you have.”

“What interests you about crisis management?” Jon asked.

“In my previous jobs bartending, I’ve had a lot of contact with people who were in some kind of crisis or another.  They needed someone to talk to, and I found that it was something I was good at.”

“I see here on your resume that you have a year and a half gap in your work history,” Jon said.  “Can you tell me what you did during that time?”

Jon already knew the answer to this question from the background check Sam had run, but he wanted to know what Satin would say and how he would react.  A look came upon Satin’s face that Jon had seen many times since becoming a crisis manager.  Shame.

“It’s okay,” Jon said.  “Considering what we do here, it’s not likely to shock me.”

“After I left school, my roommate moved out and I suddenly had to pay for both the whole rent on my apartment and make student loan payments,” Satin explained.  “I started working as an escort part-time.  When the bar I was working at closed down, I started working for the escort service full-time.”  Clearly embarrassed, the young man met his eyes nonetheless.

“I appreciate your candor, Satin,” Jon said.  “That’s all the questions I have.  Do you have any questions you’d like me to answer?”

The young man looked confused for a moment, clearly expecting that admitting to having been an escort would ruin his chances at getting the job.  _Truth by be told, it’s the tamest backstory of anyone here_ , Jon thought.  _He’ll fit in perfectly at Jon’s House of Strays and Misfits_.  Satin ended up having more questions than Jon did.  Once Jon had answered them, it was time to wrap things up.

“When can you start?”

***

“Hey Jon,” Arya said barging into his office as usual.  “Have you seen this yet?”  She held out her phone and Jon saw that she had a blog pulled up.

“It’s called ‘Capital Creeps.’  This college girl goes out to all these swanky events, takes home some PR or diplomat or Red Keep staffer, and then blogs about what a bad lay he is.”  Arya’s eyes shone with glee.  She obviously thought that this was beyond hilarious.

Arya took back her phone and read one of the entries aloud.  “ _Apologies for this short entry, but you’ll see why in a moment.  Last night I made the acquaintance of a high official in the Department of Justice at an event to raise money for the Crownlands Appellate Project.  It’s a noble cause devoted to appealing the convictions of people too poor to afford to hire their own lawyers.  Naturally, for such a serious cause, the evening devolved into drunken debauchery.  Just my kind of party._

“ _Anyway, I digress.  This high official, who was indeed high by the end of the evening as well as drunk, brought me to his hotel room.  Equipped with a healthy amount of nose candy and enough top shelf booze to fill a hot tub, the room was ultra-swank.  Very impressive.  The official, whom I will call Ed for the sake of anonymity, was not as impressive.  After a failed kiss that involved licking my chin, he decided to get right down to business.  Fine, I thought.  I don’t mind doing without foreplay every now and then.  Worst case scenario, I can just rub one out while he’s doing his thing, right?  Nope!  After much cursing and watching him to try to coax himself to sufficient hardness, he flopped over and within ten seconds was snoring loudly.  I helped myself to a bottle of 24-year-old single malt and got the fuck out of there.  A real floppy fish.  After awarding one point for the free booze, the final score for Ed is 2/10, would not recommend_.”

Jon paused in laughing when something occurred to him.  “Wait,” he said.  “‘Ed’ the ‘floppy fish?’  High Justice Department official?  Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Arya was gasping for air, she was laughing so hard.  “Yep.  Pretty sure the ‘Capital Creeps’ girl tried and failed to fuck my dear uncle.  I certainly hope poor Aunt Roslin isn’t into gossip blogs, because if she is, my uncle is in a lot of trouble.”

Jon rolled his eyes.  “Why am I not surprised?  This would hardly be the first time Edmure Tully’s rock and roll lifestyle bit him in the ass.  And he’s so careless about it.”  _Which is convenient for me_ , Jon thought.  _Such people are easy to manipulate.  Not that Willas Tyrell will thank me for it._

Jon’s intercom beeped.  “Jon, it’s Senator Baratheon for you on line one,” Satin said.  Jon pressed the button to take the call on speaker.

“Hey Cella, what’s up?” he said.

“I have some constituents with a missing daughter.  Can you squeeze us in?” Myrcella replied

“No problem, you can come over now actually.”

“Great,” she said.  “Be there in a few minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later, Satin escorted Myrcella and a couple to Jon’s office.  Myrcella introduced the couple as Gawen Westerling and Sybell Spicer.  The distraught-looking pair handed Jon several pictures of a young woman with long chestnut hair and laughing brown eyes, their daughter Eleyna Westerling.

“Eleyna is a sophomore at KLU,” Sybil explained.  “She calls me every Sunday without fail.  When she didn’t call this week and didn’t pick up any of the dozen times I tried to call her, Gawen and I came to King’s Landing to check on her.  She’s missed all her classes this week and her roommate hasn’t seen her since Saturday.  The roommate said it’s unusual for Eleyna to be gone for more than one night.  That’s when I asked Senator Baratheon to help us.”

Sybell started to cry and Myrcella clasped her hand.  “The police filed a missing persons report, but that’s just about all they’ve done,” Myrcella said.  “That’s why I stepped in.  They said college kids often disappear for a few days and to come back if we hadn’t heard from her in another week.”

“I can’t wait that long,” Gawen said.  “I just know she’s in trouble.  She’s such a good girl.  This isn’t like her at all.”

Jon flipped through the pictures and pulled out one of Eleyna hugging a stuffed animal.  _That’s the one_ , he thought.  “The first thing we need to do is get national media involved,” he said.  “It’s not your daughter who is missing; it’s everyone’s daughter.  That’s how it should feel.  It’s the difference between two people looking for Eleyna and 200 million.”

He held up the photo he had chosen.  “The next step is this photo.  A picture of innocence.  People won’t forget it.  We’ll have you hold this photo when you make a statement to the press pleading for Eleyna’s safe return.  We get that statement right, and it’s a front-page story.  I’ll help you prepare what to say.”

***

The next day, Robb sat with Jon in the conference room watching a replay of Sybell’s tearful statement to the press about the disappearance of her daughter.  She held up the photo and followed Jon’s instructions exactly.  It had gone perfectly.

“ _And Eleyna, my sweet girl, if you’re listening, I want you to know your mommy loves you very much.  We’re not going to give up until we find you.  So you don’t give up either.  We love you, sweetheart_.”

The video had played several times on WCN and the story had been covered as a front-page story by all the newspapers in both the Crownlands and the Westerlands.  Robb’s phone dinged with an alert, one he had set for any news related to Eleyna Westerling.  He pulled up the alert and saw a post from a gossip blog: “ _Missing KLU student Eleyna Westerling ‘Capital Creeps’ blogger!_ ”

Both Robb and Jon, who had been reading the same alert, cursed at the same moment.  Seconds later, WCN switched to breaking news to report that the innocent student they were looking for was in fact the notorious party girl.  As Jon pulled at his hair and continued to curse, Robb was struck with an idea.

“This is actually a good development,” Robb said.  “We can use the blog to piece together her activities prior to disappearing.  We’ll also be able to figure out who she blogged about and therefore, who may have cause to want her to disappear.  She wasn’t particularly secretive about the identity of my uncle.  It’s likely the other posts are the same.  We should start with the most recent posts and go from there.”

Robb grabbed his laptop and pulled up the blog.  There had been four posts since the ‘floppy fish’ review, and the most recent was posted several days before her disappearance.

“We need to find out who leaked her identity,” Jon said.  “Whoever it is might know if she went out Saturday night and hadn’t posted about it yet.”

Arya came into the conference room with her laptop, the screen showing the Facebook profile of a KLU student.  “I found the girl who leaked Eleyna’s identity.  She also attended a State Department party with Eleyna on Saturday night.”

Jon’s phone rang, and he put the call on speaker.  “A hospital in Rosby has an unconscious girl there being treated for alcohol poisoning,” Myrcella said.  “She matches Eleyna’s description.  They should be sending a fax to you in a few minutes with her photo.  The Westerlings and I are on our way to you now to confirm that it’s Eleyna.”

Robb was relieved.  When Eleyna had been revealed to be the Capital Creeps blogger, he had been less than hopeful that this case would have a happy ending. 

Satin came into the conference room.  “The coroner’s office was just on the phone.  They just found a body in the Kingswood.  They think it might be Eleyna Westerling.”

Robb and Jon exchanged a look.  “I’ll go to the Kingswood and see if it’s her,” Robb said.  “You can stay here and wait for the Westerlings.”  Jon nodded.

By the time Robb arrived at the site near the Wendwater where the body had been spotted, dusk had fallen.  Robb hiked down from the side of the Old Kingsroad where the police and coroner were working.  The body was covered by a tarp, and broken auto glass was scattered along the muddy ground near the body.  The coroner pulled the tarp back for Robb to see and handed him a flashlight.  The girl’s face had been battered in the crash too badly for Robb to tell if it was Eleyna.  Bits of glass clung to her face and were stuck in her hair and clothes.

Robb remembered something Gawen Westerling had said.  “She has a seven-pointed-star ankle bracelet.”  The coroner pulled back the tarp from the girl’s feet, revealing a thin gold ankle bracelet that matched Gawen’s description.  Robb turned off the flashlight and lowered it.  “That’s Eleyna,” he said sadly.

***

Shae Lannister thought that a national monument was a somewhat dramatic place for a meeting with a district attorney, but she supposed that Willas Tyrell thought he was being clever about what he probably considered a clandestine meeting.  He didn’t offer up much in the way of information during their brief phone call.

Even on a weekday, this was a popular monument with tourists.  An enormous pristine reflecting pool with a colored tile depiction of three dragons in flight above a howling white direwolf stood in front of two bronze statues, each one over fifty feet tall.  A beautifully landscaped park surrounded the monument.  Usually called the Dragon Memorial, the official name of the monument with the National Parks Service was “The King Aegon VI Targaryen and Queen Daenerys I Targaryen National Monument.”  It was a mouthful, hence the nickname.  Shae was fond of the monument and came here with Tyrion sometimes for picnics.

She saw Willas Tyrell approaching carrying a large red expandable file pocket.  “Mrs. Lannister, thank you for meeting me,” he said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tyrell,” Shae said.  They shook hands and Willas handed her the file pocket.  She started to look through it.  “What’s all this?”

“Walder Frey wants to build pipelines throughout Westeros, but they’re a tough sell with environmentalists and some locals near the projects,” Willas explained.  “How does he do it?  He rigs the voting.  Every ballot measure in the last election, all of them won.  It’s all in there,” he said pointing at the folder.  “The company that got blown up, Skytech?  They’re the ones who made the voting machine software.”

Shae looked through more of the documents.  If what Tyrell was saying wasn’t true and she wrote about it, it could be disastrous for her career.  If it _was_ true, then it might be even worse.  It was well known that Walder Frey was not a man to cross.  “I don’t know, Mr. Tyrell.  It looks like a conspiracy theory to me,” she said dismissively.  She started to try and hand the file pocket back to him, but he held up his hands.

“Please just look at it,” he pleaded.  “I’ve gone as far as I can with this without losing the job I love.  This is legitimate.  Look into it, and you’ll see.  You’re a journalist; you know how serious this is.  Something has to be done.”

Shae heaved a sigh.  She looked up at the statue of Queen Daenerys, frozen in time in her fierce battle dress looking up at the sky as if she expected to find her dragons still flying there, 1,700 years later.  _Without Queen Daenerys and King Aegon’s Promulgation of Basic Rights of the People, there would be no free press in Westeros.  The least I can do in thanks is to do my job_ , she thought.  _Walder Frey can go fuck himself._

She tucked the file pocket under her arm.  “Fine.  I’ll look into it.”  

***

“Where are we with getting that coroner’s report, Arya?” Jon asked.

“It just came in,” Arya replied.  She pressed a few keys to print the document and the laser printer quickly spit it out.

Jon read the report.  “It says here that Eleyna died approximately six hours after the crash.  The coroner notes that her injuries could have been treated if she’d been taken to a hospital.  Whoever was with her just left her to bleed out in a ditch.”  He clenched his teeth angrily before continuing.

“The glass from the windshield that they pulled out Eleyna’s hair and clothes is very specific.  It’s from a 458 Spider.  There couldn’t be too many cars like that in the capital, even with as many rich assholes as there are here.”

“I’m looking right now,” Arya said distractedly, tapping at her laptop.  “Okay, I have the list.  There are fifteen 458 Spiders registered in the Crownlands; all fifteen are registered to King’s Landing addresses.  I’m cross checking the list against the State Department party now.”  Arya tapped a few more keys while Jon waited impatiently.

Arya turned the laptop screen towards Jon.  The screen displayed a photo of lean-faced man in his forties with a tight smile and ridiculously spiked hair – Yunkish Ambassador Grazdan mo Eraz.

Jon cursed loudly.  “That’s who killed Eleyna Westerling.  The Ambassador from Yunkai.  He has diplomatic immunity.  He can’t be arrested; he can’t even be questioned.  Fuck.”

“What are we going to do?” Arya asked.

“First we call the Westerlings and Senator Baratheon and tell them what we found.  Then I’m going to have to go to the Red Keep and speak with President Targaryen.”

***

“I know why you’re here, Jon,” Tyrion said irritably.  “Eleyna Westerling.  You want Daenerys to ask the Wise Masters of Yunkai to waive Grazdan mo Eraz’s diplomatic immunity.”

“Yes,” Jon said.

“Impossible,” Tyrion said.  “I can’t get into why, but…”

“You need Yunkai’s support for the campaign against Meereen,” Jon said, cutting him off.  “You need their airspace.”

Tyrion shook his head in frustration.  “I just got out of a meeting with three staffers who think Yunkai is next to Pentos.  Gods, I miss you.  But I can’t help you.”

“I just need to talk to Daenerys for five minutes,” Jon said.  When Tyrion shook his head, Jon continued.  “A young girl was grievously injured and left to die.  Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Absolutely,” Tyrion said wearily.  “Dead girl, violence, murder.  People are bad.  I’m feeling emotions.”  He sighed and dropped into an overstuffed armchair.  “But international law is international law.  You said yourself why we need Yunkai on our side.”

Daenerys walked into the office, glancing briefly at Jon.  He lilac eyes looked duller than usual and her face was frozen into a placid, blank expression.  “Tyrion, give us the room please?”

If Tyrion took offense to being ordered out of his own office, he didn’t show it.  The door closed quietly behind him.  Daenerys leaned back against Tyrion’s desk.  “Why are you here, Jon?”

“Eleyna Westerling,” he said.

In the manner of one reciting a prepared speech, Daenerys answered him.  “What happened to Eleyna Westerling is a tragedy.  My heart goes out to her family.  But we are not asking Yunkai to revoke Grazdan mo Eraz’s diplomatic immunity or declaring him persona non grata.  I know I don’t need to explain why to you.  You used to work here.  You know how this works.  You know international law.  You can read a map.”

“I can read a map, that’s true” Jon said.  “I know you have the Balerion carrier battle group in Slaver’s Bay.  You can use the Balerion to launch your drone strikes against Meereen.  Having Yunkai’s airspace is nice, but it’s not worth an innocent Westerosi girl’s life.”

“Ruining our relationship with Yunkai won’t save Eleyna’s life,” Daenerys said.  “Nothing can.  The Wise Masters won’t revoke Grazdan mo Eraz’s immunity even if I asked.  The most I could do is expel him.  How is that justice?  He goes back to Yunkai to enjoy his bed slaves and live his life.  We give up our only ally in Slaver’s Bay.  It won’t bring Eleyna back to life.  And I can’t discuss our military strategy with you, because you don’t work here anymore.  You think you know more than you actually do.”

“The Daenerys Targaryen I campaigned for cared for justice,” Jon bit out.  “What happened to her?”

“She became the President of the Republic of Westeros,” Daenerys replied angrily.  “Whose fault was that?”

Jon glared at her.  “This isn’t the end of this, Daenerys.  I’m not giving up.”

Daenerys shrugged.  “I don’t know what you think you can do.  If I can’t do anything, you certainly can’t.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at her.  “Watch me.”

***

“Hey you,” Robb said, opening the door.  Rhaenys had been intrigued at Robb’s suggestion for their second date and was eager to have him to herself for the evening.  He took her hand and pulled her close for a quick kiss.  “Have a seat, get comfortable.  I’m nearly finished cooking.  Do you want some wine?”

“Wine would be great,” Rhaenys replied, looking around Robb’s house as she pulled off her gloves and shrugged out of her coat.  It wasn’t a large house, but the view of the Blackwater Rush from the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows was impressive.  She left her coat and gloves draped over an armchair.  “Do you need any help?  I’ve never had a man cook for me.  I must admit, I’m sort of afraid.”

Robb laughed.  “No, you just relax.  I am an excellent cook, so don’t worry.”

He poured two glasses of Dornish Red and handed one to Rhaenys when she joined him in the kitchen.  She took a sip and leaned against the kitchen island.  “It smells good, so that’s promising,” she said.  “What are you making?”

Robb removed the lid from a large pot and gave the contents a stir.  “Lobster bisque, spinach salad with warm bacon dressing, and ice cream for dessert.  I know it’s an unconventional choice for a second date, but seriously, there aren’t any good places to eat in this town.”

Rhaenys hummed in agreement.  As a fellow denizen of King’s Landing, she knew that to be true.  “Sounds pretty damned decadent.  How exactly do you make lobster bisque?”

Robb smirked as he tore spinach leaves and tossed them in a colander.  “It’s not too complicated; it just takes some time to make.  The hardest part is dispatching the lobsters.”

“‘Dispatching’ the lobsters?” Rhaenys asked, surprised.  “You have to kill them yourself?”

“That’s the only way you can be sure they’re fresh,” he explained.

“It’s very sweet that you would kill for me, Robb,” she said laughing.  “I’m impressed.”

He dried his hands on a towel as he stepped behind her, placing his hands on her waist.  “That’s the idea,” he said, sweeping her hair aside and pressing his lips against the side of her neck.  She gasped when his short-trimmed beach tickled her skin and she tilted her head to give him better access.  He kissed her throat and nipped lightly at her ear before pulling away to return to his cooking.

“You’re too tempting,” he said, shaking his head.  “If I get too carried away, our soup will be ruined, and those poor little guys will have died for nothing.”

Robb ladled the soup into bowls and put the food on the table.  Rhaenys moaned with delight after tasting her bisque.  “Gods, Robb.  This is amazing.  If you ever get tired of the crisis management business, I want to hire you as my personal chef.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.  I suppose I could also be a ‘real lawyer’ as you say.”  He winked at her.  “Could be fun.  Do you have any interesting new cases that you’re working on?”

Rhaenys shrugged.  “Not really.  Unless you consider a client being the world’s biggest asshole interesting.  Some PR from the Iron Islands got drunk and ran his car into a cyclist.  He calls my office manager at least once a week to bitch and moan about his bill.  I’m sorry; if the asshat wants a 10,000-dragon murder defense, there are plenty of kids fresh out of law school who would jump at the chance.  He didn’t have to call me.  I don’t do this for fun; I expect to get paid.  If I didn’t care about that, I’d be a figure skater, not a lawyer.”

“You figure skate?” Robb asked.

“Not as much as I used to, but yes,” Rhaenys replied.

“I’d like to see that,” he said.  “I’ll watch from the side, hanging on to the side for dear life and frequently falling on my ass.”

“I thought all the northern boys played hockey,” she said.  She recalled many of them teasing her when she was a girl, only to stomp off sullenly when they found that a southern girl could out-skate them.

“Not me,” Robb said.  “The fighting I could get behind, but I didn’t like the idea of having a puck flying at my face.”

“Surely you must have some hobby to take up your time when you’re not fixing the latest fuck-up by a famous person.”

“Not really.  They fuck up so often.  Especially recently, for some reason.  It’s been busy at the office the past few days, and Jon has been out dealing with that Westerling protest all day the last two days.  That leaves me to manage a lot of on-going work.  At least the Ryswell matter got kicked out again so I don’t need to deal with that for a few weeks.  We asked for one continuance near the start of the case, but the other three were for various bullshit reasons cooked up by plaintiff’s counsel.  I can’t figure out why they’re stalling.”

“Daenerys has told me a little about the case, but I’ve hardly seen anything about it in the news,” Rhaenys said.  “You would think the media would go crazy with it and make it out to be a big scandal.”  That had been her biggest concern when she heard about the case, knowing that it was frivolous.  Her aunt had merely shrugged and said she didn’t need to worry about the media.

Robb laughed.  “I see that our hard work has paid off.”  He refilled their wine glasses.  “I must have had to explain to two dozen reporters today that the continuance of a hearing for a frivolous lawsuit was not newsworthy.”

“And here I was thinking you guys at JSA were magic,” Rhaenys quipped.  “It turns out to be just plain old boring phone calls with reporters.  Kind of ruins the allure.”

“You don’t find me alluring?” Robb said with mock outrage.  “And those phone calls _are_ the magic.  You have to know exactly what to say.”

“I do find you alluring, in fact,” she said.  She got up out of her chair and walked over to him.  He pushed his chair back and she sat down, straddling him.  “It remains to be seen, however, if you are in fact _magic_.  Are you magic, Robb Stark?”

“You’re about to find out, Rhaenys Targaryen,” he replied huskily.  He sealed his mouth over hers and massaged her tongue with his.  She threaded her fingers through his thick auburn hair and pulled on it lightly.  He broke the kiss and groaned, then kissed down her throat.  He moved his hands down her back until he reached the hem of her skirt, then started to push it upwards over her thighs.  Once she was properly exposed, he squeezed her ass and ran his fingers under her lacey thong panties.

She thrilled at the feeling of his hard body under hers.  When they had gone out for drinks before, they hadn’t been able to go much farther than kissing and some fondling.  Robb was too much of a gentleman to invite a lady home after a first date, but she had almost wished that he had.

She leaned back and pulled off her shirt and tossed it to the floor.  Robb’s eyes went wide, and he moved his hands to run them over her naked torso.  “You are a vision,” he said.

She smiled at him.  “Looks like you do know exactly what to say.”  She reached back to unhook her bra and tossed it aside.  Robb moved a hand up to fondle one breast and wrapped his lips around the nipple of the other.

Rhaenys moaned and arched her back to get closer to him, grinding her hips against him.  She could feel his hard length against where she was already wet and wanting.  “Does this fancy house have a bed?” she asked, a little breathless.

He answered by picking her up and carrying her to his room, where she learned that Robb Stark was indeed magic.

***

As Jon walked through the halls of the Red Keep three days after his last meeting with Daenerys, he wasn’t sure what to expect.  He’d been summoned to the Red Keep many times since leaving his job there, but never by Trystane Martell.  He had considered declining based on their disastrous last meeting, but Trystane had said it was about Eleyna Westerling, so he had reluctantly agreed.

Jon had kept his word to Daenerys and had not given up.  Protesters had surrounded the Red Keep for three days.  Myrcella, the Westerlings, and Jon had camped out outside the gates with hundreds of KLU students, anti-slavery activists, and fans of Eleyna’s blog.  Friends and neighbors of the Westerlings had even flown out from Castamere and the Crag to participate.  It was an odd mix of people.  National media had covered the protest as a top story for the first day, but people are notoriously fickle.  The crowds had grown smaller and media interest was waning.  Even the possibility of some kind of help from the Red Keep was enough to get Jon’s attention.

During Jon’s tenure at the Red Keep, Trystane’s secretary had been a young and pretty Dornish girl named Cedra.  This secretary was a young and pretty Riverlands girl named Tansy.  There had been two or three others in between.  Trystane grew bored easily and there was no shortage of young and pretty girls in the capital qualified to do the necessary tasks, which consisted primarily of sitting at a desk, bending over one, or politely informing a visitor that “Mr. Martell will see you now.”  Tansy did this last upon Jon’s arrival.  He thanked her and went into Trystane’s office.

Trystane rose courteously and politely invited Jon to have a seat and offered to have Tansy bring him something to drink.  To his surprise, Trystane actually called him “Jon” instead of “bastard,” “Snow,” or “you cunt.”  As strange as the change was, Jon did his best to not act surprised.  It was a welcome change, he supposed.

“I know I asked you here to talk about Eleyna Westerling and I’ll get to that, but first I feel that I should apologize for my actions the other day,” Trystane began.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Jon said easily.  “I was in the wrong.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have hit you,” Trystane insisted.  “That wasn’t appropriate.”

“Believe it or not, it wasn’t my first time getting punched in the face,” Jon said drolly. 

Trystane laughed.  “I believe you.”

Jon decided to make the most of the opportunity provided by Trystane’s sudden change in disposition.  “I have to admit, I am a little confused about the sudden animosity.  It’s been awhile that you’ve known about this, and Daenerys has been, uh,” Jon cleared his throat.  “Complying with your requests regarding this matter.”

Trystane sighed.  “I honestly don’t give a damn if she complies or not.  That was something my father and Oberyn wanted, not me.  What I’m angry about is the effect this has had on Daenerys.  She’s changed since you quit.  She won’t fill your damned post and keeps your office here empty, like a shrine.  There was that idiotic incident with Doreah, which could have been a much bigger disaster than it was.  You had your fun with her, put her in this damned pink castle, and then left her to twist in the wind.  You left the team.  You broke her heart.  Now I’m stuck trying to fill in for you, and trust me, she doesn’t want my fucking help.”

Jon hadn’t felt getting hit in the face before, but now he did.  “What?”

Trystane rolled his eyes.  “Did I stutter?”

“I was trying to do the right thing,” Jon said defensively.  “I thought it was what was best.  Avoiding scandal.  I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Trystane said bitterly.  “ _You thought_.  You think you know what’s best, what’s right.  What if you don’t?  Did you even ask her what she thought was best or what she wanted?  I know you didn’t ask me.”

Jon was stunned into silence and when he didn’t respond, Trystane huffed and decided to move on.

“Anyway, it’s neither here nor there,” Trystane said.  “We need to move forward the best we can.  I’d like to put this hostility behind us and work together.  Now, Eleyna Westerling.  You know my daughter, Nymeria?”

Jon nodded.

“She was lucky enough to be born in Westeros into two rich and powerful families.  If she’d been born in Yunkai, she’d already be training to be a bed slave.  She’d be sold, raped, and beaten.  She’d be nothing more than property for some asshole like Grazdan mo Eraz to use as he saw fit.  She’d be treated with less dignity than we’d grant to a dog.  I wouldn’t want that for her. Or Eleyna Westerling, or the millions of people that the Wise Masters of Yunkai enslave.  So, when their ambassador comes here, to Westeros, and treats one of our bright, young, college-educated women with less care than we’d have for a possum run down on a road and rubs it in our faces that he’s going to get away with it, I take exception.”

“What do you want, Trystane?” Jon asked.  _Please get to the point so I can escape this surreal conversation_.  This strange about-face from violently jealous husband to amiable social justice warrior was starting to wear him out.

“Your story.  Your protest,” Trystane said.  “It’s starting to die.  The crowds get smaller every day, the media has lost interest, and my wife’s administration is refusing to engage.  We’re pretending our hands are tied.  They’re not.  We could do more; you know that.  It would be a great help to you if the husband to the President of the Republic of Westeros took a stand on this, wouldn’t it?”

A smile slowly spread on Jon’s face.  _Someone finally learned how to play the game.  May the odds be ever in your favor, you crazy bastard.  This might even turn out to be worth a punch to the face._ “Give me an hour to get some cable news people and print journalists back here.  I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

***

Tyrion fumed as he watched the live WCN broadcast of what was happening right outside the walls of the keep.  Daenerys saw that there was no point in being mad.  She knew she’d been beaten.  Honestly, she was glad of it.  She wanted justice for Eleyna Westerling as much as the next person.  She found the alliance with Yunkai distasteful and their ambassador’s actions disgusting and criminal.  She suspected Trystane had political motives for doing this, but she couldn’t really blame him.  What in King’s Landing was ever done without political motives?

The broadcast showed Jon and Trystane walking out to the center of the crowd of protesters.  Jon said something to someone standing near the Westerlings and Trystane was handed a sign.  He held it proudly for the cameras; “Justice for Eleyna” was painted on it in large block letters.  He joined the Westerlings.

_“Mr. Westerling, Ms. Spicer.  I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss.  I have two children and I just can’t imagine the pain you must be going through right now.  Is it alright if I join you for a while?”_   The Westerlings nodded, dumbstruck.  Clearly Jon hadn’t warned them, which must have been on purpose.  _“I’m not here in any official capacity,”_ Trystane announced to the crowd of reporters, who had all circled around him.  _“I’m only here as a father.  A father who is horrified that our legal system has fallen so woefully short in getting justice for Eleyna Westerling.”_

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Tyrion said.  “Trystane Martell and Jon Snow, working together.  Against you.”

“I can believe it,” Daenerys said.  She dropped onto the couch.  “They’re smart.  That incident with the press conference a few days ago notwithstanding, Trystane is sharp politically.  He knows what it takes to get the media to swoon over him.  And as we all know, Jon could get a journalist to kiss a pig if he wanted to.  Apparently, that _is_ what he wants.  I wouldn’t say they’re working against me, not really.  They’re giving me a plausible excuse to do the right thing, and what I wanted to do from the beginning.”

Tyrion looked thoughtful.  “We still can’t arrest the ambassador.”

“No, but we can declare him persona non grata and the Wise Masters can hardly blame us at this point.  I can make them understand the situation.  Get Yurkhaz zo Yunzak on the phone for me, would you?  I should at least warn him before throwing his ambassador out of the country.”

***

An hour after he had joined the protest, Trystane noticed that the press had still not left.  They appeared to be waiting around in case something happened.  He imagined that would be soon.  The longer he stayed out here, the more pressure would be on Daenerys to give in and expel the Yunkish ambassador.  He knew that she was probably up in the keep complaining to Tyrion about how he was only doing this as a political stunt or perhaps just for the thrill of defying her.  At least one of them was likely trying to figure out how it could work to their advantage.

Trystane honestly didn’t care about any of that.  It certainly was a bonus that this protest would help him politically, making up for the hot mic gaffe.  That wasn’t the real reason he was out here.  No one would believe it, but he actually cared about getting justice for Eleyna Westerling.  It was a disgrace that nothing was being done.  He wouldn’t say so, of course, but he had enjoyed her cheeky blog.

He would never admit it, but the incident at Frey Tower had been a wake-up call.  He would never get out of Daenerys’ shadow by acting like a fucking child.  His wife had promised the support of the House Targaryen political machine for his future ambitions, and he knew perfectly well that his wife’s paramour was the grease that made that machine run.  In King’s Landing, it paid to have as many friends as you could get.  And there was no enemy more dangerous than Jon Snow. 

He heard Jon’s phone ding and saw him reading a message.  Jon grinned and handed him the phone.

DT:  _Eraz declared PNG and expelled ASAP, Yunkai govt notified.  A+ PR stunt as always.  Have Trystane make the announcement plz.  Thx._

Protesters were all around, milling about the plaza.  Everyone quieted when Jon yelled that there was an announcement to be made.  The press trained their cameras on them.

“A few moments ago, President Targaryen notified us that Grazdan mo Eraz has been declared persona non grata and is being expelled from the country,” Trystane said loudly enough for the crowd to hear.  The protesters cheered and waved their signs.  “I know this doesn’t feel like justice.  To me, it doesn’t feel like enough.  But we are a nation of laws, and this is the most we can do within the law.  Our country has taken a stand against the perpetrator of a heinous crime against an innocent young woman.  That’s something we can be proud of.  I pray that it’s some comfort to the people who knew and loved Eleyna Westerling.”

As the protesters resumed their cheering and reporters and their cameramen closed in and started shouting questions, Trystane Martell felt the thrill of victory, the rush of power, and the love of the press.

***

An hour later, the crowds had departed, and the press had left the plaza.  Trystane and the Westerlings had gone.  Night had fallen, and lights illuminated the Red Keep.  Jon sat alone on a park bench.  The gates to the keep opened and four presidential guards fanned out around the plaza.  Daenerys followed and walked out to where Jon was sitting.

“I would have thought you would have had enough of this place after three days,” Daenerys teased.

“I wanted to see you,” Jon said.

“How did you know I would come out?” she asked.

“I had a feeling,” he replied.

“I’m glad that you did this,” she said.  “Eleyna deserved justice.  It’s so easy here to get caught up in the things that need to be done that I lose sight of what I should do, what I want to do.”

“I know you did all you could,” he said.  “Trystane was right, though.  It doesn’t feel like justice.”

Daenerys shook her head.  “I still can’t believe that.  You and Trystane.”

Jon laughed.  “I can’t either.”

“I never thanked you for not making a big deal out of that hot mic comment, by the way,” she said.  “I know you could have had the press burn him for that, but you didn’t.”

Jon smirked.  “I actually had to go to some trouble to get them to drop the story.  Reporters love that kind of thing.”

“Why did you?” she asked.

“For you,” he said.  Their eyes met, and his eyes communicated the unspoken remainder of that statement.  _I’d do anything for you, always_.

When she answered, it was as if he had said it out loud.  “I know.  I remember what you said during the campaign.”

His fingers itched to touch her, but he couldn’t, not here in the open where anyone could see.  His eyes were locked on hers, but he could sense her hand twitching in her lap and knew she felt the same, was recalling the same memory.

***

_Highgarden, 2016 AC_

It took Jon a solid minute of looking at each of their faces to realize that Walder had spoken in complete seriousness.  Even realizing it finally, he still tried to shake it off, not wanting to think it was true.

“You can’t possibly be serious,” he said.  “If what you just said is true, that’s already a felony.  You don’t even have to go any farther with it; it’s already conspiracy!  And you,” he directed his glare at Trystane.  “How can you just sit here and listen to this?  Daenerys is your wife.  How can you do this to her?”

“What are you talking about?” Trystane asked.  “What we’re suggesting is _for_ her.  I’m not doing anything _to_ her.  You’re usually so practical.  What the fuck is all this outrage?  I thought you were a ruthless campaign manager, not some naïve maiden.”

Olenna spoke in calm tones, trying to soothe him.  “Jon, please just sit down and try to listen.  You know as well as we do the effect the Bolton bastard’s voter intimidation campaign is having.  It may not have been designed for the purpose of hurting Daenerys, but it is doing so regardless.  You’ve seen the polling.  The same voters who are being frightened into staying home on election day so they can’t vote for Bran Stark are the same voters in the North who would vote for Daenerys.  This is just a way of levelling the playing field.”

“We level the playing field with our lawsuit,” Jon countered.  “We have a court order allowing hundreds of election monitors to go north and prevent the intimidation tactics that you’re talking about on election day.  We don’t level it like _this_.”

Tyrion sighed.  “That’s not going to get turnout to where it would have been with Ramsay’s interference and you know it.  People don’t feel safe.  They’re frightened.  Election monitors can’t fix this.”

Jon gripped the edge of the table and bent towards Tyrion, his knuckles white.  “If they can’t fix it, then I will.  We still have a week.  I can get us at least three more points.  It’ll be enough.  Fuck Ramsay Bolton.  I’ll tear off his head and spit down his neck.  I don’t need Walder to rig any voting machines.  I can win on my own.” 

Walder cackled.  “I wish I had the same faith in you that you seem to have in yourself.  But I don’t.  I’ve sunk entirely too much money into this venture to lose now just because you don’t want to break your maidenhead.”

“I will not agree to this,” Jon hissed.

“You don’t have to agree,” Walder said.  “I wasn’t asking for your permission.”

“What makes you think I won’t just walk down the hallway and tell Daenerys about this right now?”

Trystane scoffed.  “You know Daenerys.  She’d report all four of us to the elections commission.  We’d be arrested and even if she was completely exonerated, she would lose the election and badly.  That’s a scandal even you can’t fix.”

Jon visibly deflated, knowing Trystane was right.  He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking.  “Please don’t do this.  We’ve come from a complete long-shot candidacy that was barely a blip on the media’s radar to being within the margin of error one week before the general election.  When we started this campaign, we were little more than a late-night talk show punchline.  Now we’re just days away from making history.  I’ve brought us this far, and I can get us the rest of the way.  You just need to trust me.”

“Daenerys is going to be a great president, Jon,” Tyrion said.  “Don’t you want her to win?  Maybe you can get her over the top fair and square.  But maybe not.  This is just insurance.  I would prefer that we do this with your agreement; that’s why I asked Walder to tell you about his plan before moving forward.”

Jon shook his head angrily.  “I do want Daenerys to win.  She’s what Westeros needs right now.  But I will not agree to _election rigging_.  If you do this, you’re on your own.”

Barely aware of his own movements, Jon found himself leaving Walder’s room, walking down the hallway, and using his keycard to enter Daenerys’ room.  On his way there, a jumble of indignant thoughts and noble aphorisms flitted through his mind.  Things like _“the greatest tyrannies are always perpetuated in the name of the noblest of causes,”_ or _“the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”_ How could he remain silent?

When Jon entered the room, Daenerys was sitting in the middle of the king-size bed surrounded by papers, studying her speech for the next day’s rally at the Highgarden Amphitheatre.  He was about to blurt out the entire conspiracy when she looked up at him and smiled.  So happy and genuine, her smile disarmed him for just the right amount of time needed for him to hesitate.

“I missed you, _ñuhys dārilaros,”_ she said.  As he moved closer and she got a better look at him, she frowned.  “What’s wrong?”

_I can’t do this to her.  I should, but I can’t._

He carefully moved a few papers and sat on the edge of the bed.  She looked concerned and repeated her question.  He offered her an unconvincing smile.  “You know what a pest Walder Frey can be.  It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Thank the gods,” she said.  “From the look on your face, I thought it was something serious.”

He picked up a few of the papers around them and started sorting them idly.  He didn’t speak for a long moment.  Finally, he set the papers down and stared at his hands.  “Daenerys, if you could have anything, what would it be?”

She didn’t hesitate to answer.  “I want to win this election,” she said firmly.

He nodded.  “I thought so.”  He paused a moment.  “Do you think we should do anything it takes to win?”

Daenerys looked at him reassuringly.  “Jon, I know we’ve had to do some questionable things in this campaign to get where we are.  That’s politics.  That’s what it takes.  You’re ruthless, but so is everyone.  You’re just better at it than the others.  You work harder.  You want it more.  At least with you, it’s for a good cause.”  She took his hand and met his eyes.  “We both want to help people. We can only help them from a position of strength. Sometimes strength is terrible.”

When he didn’t say anything, she laughed and scooted closer to him.  “Oh gods, please don’t tell me that my blood-thirsty campaign manager has gone soft on me.  It would be the worst possible timing.”

He flipped over so that she was pushed back into the pillows and he was hovering over her with his hands propping him up on either side of her head.  “Never,” he said.  “If you lose this election, it will be over my very cold and dead body.  I’d do anything for you, always.  Anything, Dany.  You know that, don’t you?”

“I know it,” she said.  She pressed herself against him, her eyes blown with lust.  “I want to see how ruthless you are, _ñuhys dārilaros._ Show me.”

As he kissed her roughly, leaving her breathless and her lips swollen and red, it occurred to him that this omission was one of his most essential responsibilities.  He was supposed to protect her from plots such as Walder Frey’s.  He was the manager of this campaign.  The last thing he should do is tell Daenerys something that would put her in a position where she would be forced to either destroy her campaign or become an unwilling but knowledgeable conspirator.  _Plausible deniability_.

_Daenerys is right_ , Jon thought as he pulled off her nightgown to reveal that she was gloriously bare underneath it.  _Sometimes strength is terrible_.  One week before the general election was exactly the wrong time to have a crisis of conscience and decide he doesn’t have the stomach to do what needs to be done.  _I have to protect her._

Jon kissed and sucked on Dany’s bare skin from her throat to her ankles, and as he did, he reasoned that what he really ought to do is find a way to convince Walder and the others to abandon their ridiculous and highly illegal plan.  If reason wouldn’t work, he would move on to threats.  Everyone in politics has something to hide.

When Jon wrapped his lips around Dany’s clit and gave it a long, hard suck, she moaned loudly.  “Shh,” he said.  “We have to be quiet, _ñuha dāria._ The walls are thin.”

“I can’t,” she panted.  “It’s too good.”

Never one to shy away from a situation that required creative problem-solving, Jon flipped Dany over.  “Bite down on the pillow, love.”  He positioned her as he liked and took a moment to admire her fine, round ass and perfect, smooth cunt, already swollen with arousal and dripping wet.  He grabbed her by the hips and licked her cleft and plunged his tongue into her heat until he could feel her come apart under his tongue and heard her muffled cries.

She sagged with her release, and as he removed his clothes, he thought that even if he failed to stop Walder from carrying out his plan, none of it would matter if he managed to get Daenerys enough votes to win.  Could an election really be said to have been rigged if the stolen votes didn’t make the difference?  The conspirators, if caught, would be implicated, but Daenerys’ legitimacy would be intact.  It would be better to stop the plot entirely, but he couldn’t take his focus off winning.  That was more important than anything.

  _I want to see how ruthless you are_.  Jon decided to take a break from musing about Walder Frey and his conspiracy for the rest of the night.  Right now, the only thing he wanted to be thinking of was Daenerys, wet and waiting for him.

She craned her head to look at him imploringly.  “Please, Jon.  Don’t make me wait.” 

She might say that, but Jon knew she liked to be teased.  He rubbed the head of his cock against her from front to back a few times.  “I like to see you spread open and wet for me.”  She whined pitifully at his teasing tone.  He gave her a sharp spank and she gasped with pleasure.  “Keep whining, and I’ll keep you waiting longer.”  She relented and turned her head back around to face the wall.

He gripped her hips firmly, digging his fingertips into her soft flesh.  “Bite down,” he reminded her.  He buried himself to the hilt in one hard thrust.  Her moan was muffled by the pillow.  He thrust into her again and she backed up to grind against him, but he held her tightly in place.

As good as it was, it wasn’t enough.  He needed to see her face.  He pulled out of her abruptly and flipped her over again.  He pulled her ankles onto his shoulders and plunged into her again.  “Fuck it,” he said with a groan.  “We have this whole floor.  I want to hear you.”

Dany smiled wickedly at him.  “Oh, you’re bad.  I love it.”  He reached down and palmed her breasts, pinching both nipples.  She moaned loudly, and he responded by thrusting deeper into her.  “You’re too beautiful, Dany.  I had to see your face.”

The sound of their skin slapping together filled the room and after a while, Jon couldn’t hold back any longer.  “Touch yourself, _ñuha dāria,”_ he said, panting.  “I want to see you come for me.”

She lowered a trembling hand to rub herself, and within seconds, he could feel her convulsing around him.  She cried out then, her eyes locked on his.  The sensation of her cunt squeezing him was overwhelming, and he erupted within her.

“Dany,” he groaned, shuddering, before collapsing onto her.  He rolled to his side and pulled her close, caressing her face and gazing into her eyes.  His mind finally cleared, he pressed his forehead to hers.

“I love you,” he whispered.  _This slip of a girl, so idealistic and fierce, captured my heart the moment we first touched,_ he thought.  _I won’t let her down._

“I love you too, Jon,” she whispered back.

Later, as he watched Daenerys sleep and ran his fingers lightly through her moonlit hair, Walder’s plot wormed its way back into Jon’s thoughts.  He would talk to Tyrion, he decided.  Tyrion was reasonable.  If Jon could get him to back away from this idea, then the others would have to abandon it.  _It’s turnout we need_ , he thought.  _I’ll convince him_.

He gave Daenerys a light kiss on the forehead, pulled on his clothes, and left to find his own room.


	11. Let Them Say We’re Crazy, I Don’t Care About That.  Put Your Hand In My Hand Baby, Don’t Ever Look Back.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scandal in the senate presents an opportunity for Myrcella.  Jon and Daenerys reflect on the 2016 election that put Daenerys into the Red Keep.  Ned and Arya have a quiet night in.  King’s Landing comes together to celebrate Daenerys’ nameday. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is borrowed from "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now" by Starship. You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN) (https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).
> 
> DarthSidious, this chapter has that Arya/Edric scene I promised you ;)

 

Chapter 11

“Let Them Say We’re Crazy, I Don’t Care About That.  Put Your Hand In My Hand Baby, Don’t Ever Look Back.”

 

_Sunspear, 2016 AC_

_“Welcome back to WCN’s Election Night coverage where we bring you latest election results as they come in.  With polls now closed on both the east coast and in the central time zone, we are now getting early returns from those areas.  Polls on the Sunset Coast are still open for another 58 minutes.  With 20 percent of districts reporting, the Crownlands appear to have tipped toward Senator Targaryen, while the Stormlands are firmly with President Baratheon with 15 percent of districts reporting.  The Vale is still leaning heavily toward President Baratheon with 12 percent of districts reporting.  A late push in campaigning by Vice President Jon Arryn seems to have shored up support for the president there, the exception being the Eyrie, which is still a tossup._

_“With 22 percent of districts reporting, Dorne is strongly Targaryen country due to strong support for Senator Targaryen’s husband, Trystane Martell.  Polls are still open in the Westerlands and the Reach; however, those areas look good for Senator Targaryen as well.  The Westerlands, long firmly in the grip of House Lannister, looks to be eager to support the senator’s running mate, Jaime Lannister._

_“The biggest surprise tonight is shaping up to be the North.  If you look at this map of the latest polling data for the North, it appears to be a Baratheon stronghold, but maps can be misleading.  The heavily rural North flocked to President Baratheon following the terrorist attack alleged to have been carried out by wildling extremist Mance Rayder which killed Governor Eddard Stark, his wife, and youngest son.  The cities are a different story, however.  The large cities of Winterfell and White Harbor are still strongly in the Targaryen camp.  It appears that the arrival of election monitors to combat widespread voter intimidation has really made a difference in turnout for Targaryen supporters, even outside the two major cities.  With 5 percent of northern districts reporting, the North appears to be much more competitive than was expected just days ago.  It is possible that Senator Targaryen could pick up considerably more districts than the eight that the most recent polls suggested that she would get._

_“But it might all come down to the Riverlands, as it so often does.  Long a swing province, this election season has proven to be no exception.  Polls are now closed throughout the province, and with 8 percent of districts reporting, there is currently an even split between the presidential contenders.  This map shows the must-win districts in the Riverlands, including Harrenhal.  In the past fifteen presidential elections, no candidate has ever won the presidency without capturing Harrenhal.  Returns are not yet in from the area yet, but the most recent polling indicates that President Baratheon has an edge there._

_“WCN’s coverage of the 2016 presidential election will continue throughout the night and we will bring you live results as they come in.  We will be back after a word from our sponsors.”_

Jon took his eyes away from the TV and saw many of the campaign staff were also standing around the main work room of the Sunspear campaign headquarters watching the election night coverage.  “Alright everyone,” he shouted.  “The polls are still open for another 55 minutes on the Sunset Coast.  That means we’ve got 55 more minutes to win this election so let’s get to work.  Jeyne, get on the phone with our transportation director in Old Town and make sure all his drivers are still out of the streets taking people to the polls.  Some people are just getting off work and still need to vote.  Cedra, call the canvassing coordinator on the Stoney Shore.  It’s started raining there.  Make sure her canvassers are out of the streets handing out ponchos and umbrellas.  They say Baratheons pray for rain on election day.  Let’s make sure those prayers are for nothing.”  The campaign staff laughed.  “Everyone else, stay on the phones calling undecideds in Old Town, Bear Island, the Stoney Shore, the Arbor, Harlaw, and the Shield Islands.  Every call counts.  High turnout gives us the win.  I want to see that WCN map turned Targaryen red the next time I see it.  Make it happen.”  The staffers dispersed to make their calls.

Daenerys came up from behind him and smiled.  “What can I do, boss?”  Jon gave her a crooked smile back.  “Call undecideds.  The calls are effective coming a staffer, but a personal call from you will have them running to the polls to vote Targaryen.”

“Every call counts,” she replied with a grin.

“That’s right,” he said.

Jon returned to his desk to continue to monitor the weather on the Sunset Coast, respond to reports from the northern canvassers about the effectiveness of the election monitors, and review the exit polling data as it came in.  Tyrion approached the side of his desk, looking chagrined.

“It looks like we got lucky in the North,” he said.  “Exit polls are suggesting the North might turn out to split their votes evenly between us and Baratheon.”

Jon shook his head dismissively.  “It’s a good thing that I’m running this campaign and not you, Tyrion, if you think what I do is _‘luck’.”_   He spun his chair around to face him.  “What did I tell you?  I seem to recall saying that we would level the playing field in the North with election monitors.  You were so sure that I was wrong.  How did that work out for you?”

“I was wrong,” Tyrion said.  “I admit it.”

“Unfortunately, it’s too late for apologies,” Jon said coldly.  “I asked you to trust me.  I told you all we needed was high turnout and that my ground game would make it happen.  I gave you numbers.  I gave you specifics.  You shrugged off all my arguments, and now you’ve left me with a huge mess to clean up.”

Tyrion eyed him speculatively.  “I thought you said we were on our own.”

“You think I’m going to leave fixing this to you and your witless associates?” Jon asked, rolling his eyes dramatically.  “That’s not going to happen.  Instead of celebrating Daenerys’ victory tomorrow and getting started on the transition like I should, I have to deal with this bullshit.  Don’t think that I’m going to forget it.”

“What are you going to do?” Tyrion’s tone was all business, but his eyes betrayed his uneasiness.

“You let me worry about that,” Jon said.  “I’ll handle it.  Just make sure Walder gets me his data on those four districts around Harrenhal.  I need it within the hour.  Now if that’s all, I have a lot of things I need to do in the next 45 minutes.  If you want to help, call undecideds.”  Tyrion nodded and walked away.

***

_King’s Landing, 2018 AC_

“What can I do for you, Jon?” Myrcella sat at her desk in her office at the Senate.  It was nicely decorated, but small, as befit a junior senator.

Jon sat down in one of the armchairs provided for visitors.  “It’s more something that I’d like to do for you.  I appreciate your recent referrals and our friendship, so I wanted to give you a heads-up about something.”

Myrcella leaned forward with interest and cracked a half smile.  “Don’t forget I also agreed to let you stomp all over my feet this weekend.”

Jon laughed.  “I haven’t forgotten.  I hope you have some steel-toed shoes suitable for a formal event.”

Myrcella winked at him.  “I’m having a pair of my Jimmy Choos retrofitted.  So what’s this heads-up?”

“Near the end of today’s Senate session, a big announcement is going to be made,” he said.  “You should be the first to make a statement to the press.  I already told one of my friends at WCN to be looking for you outside the gallery.  He’ll call out to you when he sees you.”

“A statement about what?” Myrcella asked.  “What’s being announced?”

“That I can’t tell you without breaking confidentiality, but it’s major and I think you should be the one to lead the charge in speaking about it.”

“If you can’t tell me what it is, how will I know what to say so soon after it happens?” Myrcella asked.

“Oh, you’ll know what to say,” Jon said with a smirk.  “For my client’s sake, I would hope it’s a statement of support.”

Myrcella sighed in frustration.  She knew that Jon was trying to help her, but that there was no way he’d break his client’s trust by telling her anything further.  Whoever that client was.  “So mysterious.  I’ll be distracted wondering about this all afternoon.”

Jon laughed.  “It’ll be worth it, I promise.  I’ll see you later, Cella.”

***

Sansa’s phone rang, and she was surprised to see the name displayed on her caller ID.  “Well if it isn’t Willas Tyrell,” she answered.  “I had started to think I would never hear from you again after Sam’s trial.  Get over your butt-hurt yet?”

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” Willas said through the phone.  “I was angry, and I unfairly blamed you.  I shouldn’t have done that.”

“That’s right, because I had nothing to do with the judge’s decision,” Sansa said.  “I was as surprised as you were.  And Sam is innocent, besides.  I would have told you that if you had bothered to talk to me.”

“I believe you,” he said.

“You do?”  Sansa was incredulous.

“I’ve learned some things since the trial that led me to think Sam didn’t have anything to do with the Skytech bombing,” Willas explained.

Sansa’s curiosity was piqued.  “What things?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” he said.  “I’m not investigating it anymore.  The AG was quite insistent that I drop it.  That isn’t why I called.”

“Oh?” Sansa said casually.  “Why did you?”

“I want to see you,” Willas said.  “What are you doing this weekend?”

“I was thinking of going to the president’s birthday gala,” Sansa said.  “I still don’t have a date, though.”

“I’d take you,” Willas said.

Sansa sighed.  “I’m not adverse to seeing you Willas…” she trailed off.

“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Willas said.

Sansa was encouraged to pick up her thought.  _“But_ Sam’s case will most likely not be the last time you find yourself at odds with JSA.  If there’s going to be something between us, you need to understand that I’m going to do my job as well as I can for my clients.  If that means going against you – or anyone -  that’s what I’ll do.  This isn’t just business for me.  You know how it came to be that I’m not with Petyr anymore.”

“I get it, Sansa,” he said.  “I can’t judge you for being loyal to Jon.  It makes perfect sense.  My issues with him are my own.  I don’t want them to interfere with my relationship with you.”

“That’s good.  Then we understand each other,” she said.  “Pick me up at eight on Saturday?”

“I’ll be there,” he said.

***

_Sunspear, 2016 AC_

_“It’s been a long night following Election Night 2016, but with 95 percent of districts reporting, WCN is ready to call the presidential election for Senator Daenerys Targaryen.  In a stunning upset, Senator Targaryen has managed to capture 227 electoral votes compared to President Baratheon’s 197, including an incredible 18 out of 36 districts in the North. Harrenhal and its three neighboring districts also went to Senator Targaryen in a big reversal from early exit polls by WCN.  It is expected that the remaining Sunset Coast districts will report their results in the next half hour, after which we expect President Baratheon will call Senator Targaryen to officially concede.”_

The campaign headquarters erupted in cheers.  In a rare display of affection, Trystane picked up his wife and swung her around while she gleefully laughed.  A few staffers uncorked bottles of champagne that they had been saving under their desks.

“That better be Dornish champagne,” Trystane yelled at the staffers in jest.  Raucous laughter filled the room.  A staffer handed Trystane a glass of the most decidedly not Dornish champagne and he held up his glass.  “A toast my beautiful wife, President-elect Daenerys Targaryen, and her amazing staff.  We couldn’t have done this without all of you.”

“Where’s my champagne?” Daenerys asked with fake indignation.  More laughter filled the office and she was handed a glass.  “Thank you all,” she said.  “This is a victory for all of us.  Everyone here has worked tirelessly to make this happen, and I will never forget it.  Who are we?”

“WE ARE WESTEROS!” everyone in the room shouted.  Daenerys grinned triumphantly when she heard the campaign slogan.

Twenty minutes later, as the campaign workers continued to celebrate, Daenerys’ cell phone rang.  A hush fell over the room.

“This is Daenerys Targaryen,” she answered.  A few moments passed.  “That is very gracious, Mr. President.  I thank you for your kind words and your service to our country.”  She was quiet another moment.  “I will do that, Mr. President.  Thank you again.”  She ended the call and held the phone up.

“That was President Baratheon,” she announced.  “He has officially conceded.”  The sound of cheering in the room this time was deafening, but nothing had ever sounded sweeter to Jon’s ears.  It was the sound of victory.

***

_King’s Landing, 2018 AC_

“The young people who come to the capital to serve as Senate interns are the future leaders of Westeros and they come here to learn from us,” Myrcella said decisively in response to the WCN reporter’s question.  As Jon had told her earlier, the reporter had called out to her as soon as she departed the gallery. 

“They come here to serve their country,” Myrcella continued.  “These people, most of them between the ages of 18 to 22, look to senators as role models.  That is what we should be.  Senate interns – in fact all of Westeros – look to the eighteen members of the Westerosi Senate for leadership.  It is a sacred trust that our countrymen have given to us.  A betrayal of this trust is the worst kind of failure for a senator.  That is why not only do I agree with Senate Leader Yronwood’s decision to step down as leader, but I also call on him to resign his senate seat.”

Myrcella knew that while her statement would not be enough for Yronwood to resign, the pressure would build as other senators lined up behind her to voice their outrage at Yronwood’s transgressions.  She thought that while Jon had made the appropriate noises about a statement of support for his client, he had had no reasonable expectation of that actually happening.  His client was a dead duck, and Jon knew it.  The best he could do for Yronwood now would be negotiating settlements with the interns and keeping him out of legal trouble.  The former Senate Leader’s political career was over.

“Senator Baratheon, do you plan on seeking the leader position for yourself when the Senate votes on Senator Yronwood’s replacement tomorrow?” the reporter asked.

“I do,” Myrcella said.

“Some might say that you are too young and too new in your position as senator to seek the leadership yet,” the reporter speculated.  “What do you have to say to those objections?”

Myrcella ignored her desire to point out to the reporter that no such objections had yet been made.  She bristled at the question but was sensible enough to see the opportunity to quash these objections before anyone else could raise them.  “Leadership isn’t about age and seniority,” she said.  “Leadership is about integrity and ability.  It’s about accountability and commitment.  Senator Yronwood had age and seniority, but what did he do with that time?  He molested his own interns and spent a significant amount of time quashing three separate ethics investigations.  Time that he could have better spent serving the people of Westeros and his own constituents in Dorne.  I came to King’s Landing to serve my country and the people of the Westerlands.  I learned leadership from three of my uncles who have served this country ably and with honor – former President Stannis Baratheon, Vice President Jaime Lannister, and Hand to the President Tyrion Lannister.  I may be young and a junior senator, but I am capable, and I understand that the position of Senate Leader comes with great moral responsibility.”  She hoped that the reporter would not ask if she had learned from her father, who could not be said to have served ably, or with honor.  She was prepared to pivot, but it would be nice to not have to duck a question. 

As Myrcella had hoped, the reporter didn’t mention her father.  She wondered idly how Jon came to have such a ‘friend’ at WCN.  “You’ve suggested Senator Yronwood resign his seat,” the reporter said.  “Do you have any opinion on who should take his place if he does decide to resign?”

“That is for the good people of Dorne to decide,” Myrcella said.  “My only hope is that they choose someone who will represent them with pride.  I hope that it is a person who will inspire our young people and provide a good example and a safe work environment for our interns here.”

The reporter had exhausted his list of questions.  “Thank you, Senator Baratheon.”

***

_Sunspear, 2016 AC_

Daenerys was quiet on the way to the Water Gardens to give her victory speech.  About fifteen minutes from her campaign headquarters in downtown Sunspear, the large park near the city’s edge was adjacent to the ancient Dornish palace and pools it was named for.  Tyrion had said a crowd of about 200,000 people was waiting to hear her victory speech.  Jon sat next to her on the campaign bus while she reviewed her speech on her iPad.

“This is really good, Jon,” she said.  “Did you write this yourself?”

“Yes,” he said.  “I’ve been working on it for months.”  She smiled when she saw his blush.

“You missed something,” she said when she reached the end.

“Oh?” he asked in alarm.

“You wrote a long list of people you want me to thank, but you never mentioned yourself.”  She glared at him reproachfully and handed him the iPad.  “We only have a few minutes to fix that; you should hurry.”

He quickly added a few lines to the speech.  She huffed when she saw the corrections and made a few more changes herself.  “You’re so modest.  It’s irritating.”

They were both quiet for a minute.  “Where’s the other speech?” she asked finally.

Jon looked at her, confused.  “What other speech?”

She rolled her eyes.  “The concession speech.  There must be one.  I’d like to see it; I’m just curious about what it says.”

“I didn’t write one,” he admitted.

“Someone did, though.  Right?” she asked.

Jon shook his head.  “Tyrion wanted to.  I wouldn’t allow it.”  _He wrote my victory speech months ago and wouldn’t accept the possibility of losing.  He believed in me from the first, more than I ever did myself._   Her heart melted for him just a little bit more.  Even though it was a crazy thing to do, he looked completely unapologetic.

Daenerys laughed.  “That’s sweet, Jon.  Irresponsible, but sweet.”

Jon shrugged.  “I knew that you would win.  I believe in you, Daenerys.  We all do.  You’re going to do great things for this country.  I can’t wait.”

She looked at him and could see the love clear in his stormy gray eyes.  She wanted to kiss him, or at least take his hand, but it was impossible on the crowded campaign bus.  “We’ll do them together.  This isn’t just about me, just like you wrote in this speech.  This is about us.”

When they arrived at the Water Gardens, Daenerys looked out the window at the crowd.  It looked like at least 200,000 people, if not more.  The crowd looked energetic despite the late hour.  The bus pulled to a stop behind the stage, and as she climbed out, she laughed when she heard “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” start playing through the loudspeakers set up in the park.  Jon saw her laughing and grinned.

“I know how you love 80s music,” he said.  “I couldn’t help myself.”

“It’s perfect,” she said.

Daenerys climbed onto the stage to the sound of thunderous cheering from the crowd.  Thousands of Westerosi flags waved in the sea of people, the red sunburst whipping in the warm breeze coming off the Summer Sea.  Thousands of Targaryen/Lannister campaign signs were also being held up enthusiastically by the attendees, the shiny blood red three-headed dragon on black catching the light from the floodlights set up for the event.  She took a deep breath while waving at the crowd, smiling widely.

“Hello Sunspear!” she began brightly.  The crowd erupted, and she waited a moment to continue.

“Thank you,” she said, and the crowd began to quiet down.

“Tonight, we have come together to celebrate a victory.  Not a victory for me, but for all of us.  This isn’t a victory for one person, or one house, or one province.  This is a victory for all of Westeros.  We have sent a clear message tonight that we believe in hope for a better future for our country.  We believe in a brighter tomorrow for our children.”

“All across our country today, our fellow citizens flocked to the polls in never-before-seen numbers to cast their votes.  Young people, the future of our nation, voted at the highest rate ever seen in the history of our republic.  The people of the Stoney Shore stood in lines outside in the cold rain, waiting to cast their votes.  Young and old, rich and poor, northern and southern, we have all come together to state to the world who we are.  Who are we?”

The voices of 200,000 people shouted out into the mild Dornish night in answer.  “WE ARE WESTEROS!”

“We are Westeros!” Daenerys agreed.  “WE are, all of us.  The Republic of Westeros isn’t just a place.  It’s _us_.  It’s an idea.  It’s a challenge to the rest of the world that there is a nation that will stand up for justice.  A people who will stand up for truth.  A people who will fight for freedom.  We are a nation of ideals, and tonight we have taken a stand for those ideals.  In Westeros, the land of the sunset, the light remains while the rest of the world is plunged into darkness.  To those who would embrace that darkness and declare themselves enemies of freedom and justice, I will tell you tonight that we will defeat you.  Darkness will not prevail.  For those of you who share our values and seek peace and freedom, we embrace you.  We hold out our hands in friendship.”

“Only together can we defeat our common enemies and fulfill our common destiny.  So many politicians will try to tear us apart, to point out our differences, and set us against our neighbors for their own political gain.  I say to you tonight – their time is past.  This victory tonight is about us.  This is our moment.”

“A little earlier tonight, I received a very gracious call from President Baratheon.  President Baratheon and Vice President Arryn fought a long and hard campaign and they conducted it with honor and integrity.  We all owe them our thanks for their many years of service to our country.  I look forward to working with them in the weeks ahead as we transition to new leadership in Westeros.”

“I want to thank my partner in this campaign, a man who has campaigned tirelessly to make this victory tonight possible – Vice President-elect Jaime Lannister.”  She turned around and motioned at him.  “Jaime, come on out here.”  Jaime walked out onto the stage, waving at the crowd as they cheered for him.  He extended his hand to shake with Daenerys, but she hugged him instead to the delight of the crowd.  Daenerys took the microphone once more.

“I also want to thank my incredible husband, Trystane Martell, whose support in this campaign has been everything.  No one could ask for a better friend and partner.”  The crowd cheered wildly at the mention of one of Dorne’s favorite sons.  “I also thank my wonderful children, Aegon and Nymeria, for their patience and their inspiration on this journey.”  She waved at Trystane to come out, and he walked onto the stage holding hands with both children.  Daenerys hugged Trystane and he kissed her on the cheek.  She picked up both children in turn and swung them around to their squealing delight and the cheers and applause of the audience.

Daenerys returned to the lectern and the crowd quieted to hear her.  “To my family who are in the Crownlands tonight -- my brother, Governor Rhaegar Targaryen and my niece Rhaenys Targaryen -- thank you for your hard work and your faith in me.  I also want to express my love and gratitude to my parents who are no longer with us, Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen.”

“My chief political strategist, Tyrion Lannister, whose advice has been so invaluable.  Thank you.”  She waved him out and bent to hug him.

“I thank all of my amazing campaign team, including thousands of volunteers who worked tirelessly to make this victory happen.  I couldn’t have done it without you.  But most of all, I must thank from the bottom of my heart, our fearless leader, our White Wolf, the man who won this election, believed in me from the first, and without whom I would not be here tonight, my campaign manager, Jon Snow.  Jon, get out here.” 

As Jon walked out onto the stage and waved at the crowd, he shot Daenerys a crooked smile acknowledging the liberties she had taken in editing this part of the speech.  She grinned, completely unrepentant.  “You know he had me making calls to undecided voters until ten minutes before the polls closed in Old Town?” she asked the audience conspiratorially.  “He really is a beast.”  The crowd laughed and cheered raucously.  People waved their campaign signs vigorously as high as they could be lifted.  When many in the crowd started chanting “White Wolf,” Jon’s cheeks reddened.  Daenerys laughed a bit and hugged him fiercely.  After a moment, she let him go reluctantly and returned to the microphone to finish her speech.

“Without the support of everyone here tonight, this would not be possible.  I thank you all for your support, and the support of everyone watching tonight who has trusted me with their vote, and I vow to you that I will fulfill the promise of change in the years ahead.  To my fellow citizens, whether you supported me in this election or not, I vow to be a president for all the people of Westeros.  I will listen to you, and I will be honest with you.  We face many challenges on the road ahead, but we will meet those challenges and we will do it together.  Thank you all.  May the gods bless you, and may the gods bless the Republic of Westeros.”

As the crowd roared, the music resumed.  This time, it was “Don’t Stop Believin’ playing over the loudspeakers.  Daenerys laughed when she heard it and noticed many in the audience were singing along.  Seconds later, fireworks burst over the Summer Sea.  Red, yellow, orange, and white, they lit up the night as the crowd celebrated.  Despite the late hour, it did not appear that anyone was eager to leave. 

Daenerys looked at Jon, amazed.  “Fireworks?  Seriously?”  She laughed loudly. 

Jon bit his lip and grinned.  “And Journey.  Surprise.”

Egg tugged on her sleeve.  “Mom, look!  Fireworks!”  He pointed at the sky.

“I know, baby,” she said.  “Aren’t they pretty?”

***

_King’s Landing, 2018 AC_

The Bar Emmon Grand Blackwater Bay was King’s Landing’s newest and most ostentatious hotel.  Situated on Point Rosby near the old Iron Gate, the hotel boasted 41 floors, 200 guest rooms, and a 20,000 square foot ballroom with a glass outer wall opening onto a terrace directly over Blackwater Bay.  Thoroughly modern and ridiculously decadent, the hotel had been chosen as the site of Daenerys’ nameday gala not only because its suitability, but also because the Bar Emmons had been generous contributors to Daenerys’ presidential and senatorial campaigns.

Daenerys would have preferred a quiet celebration in the Maidenvault, perhaps with a pizza, a good vintage of Dornish Red, and a sheet cake from Hot Pie’s.  They could have brought out Nym’s karaoke machine and sang 80s rock anthems, or maybe she and Egg could have played a few rounds of Mario Kart in the game room.  She certainly did not relish the prospect of spending several hours watching the politicos and glitterati of the capital attempt to curry her favor while they grew progressively more incoherent from overpriced booze as the night dwindled.

As the presidential limo pulled up to the front of the hotel, Daenerys turned her head towards Trystane, whose eyes were glued to his phone.  “Are you sure we can’t just go home and have pizza and play video games with the kids?”

Trystane smirked.  “What?  You already don’t like the party that I personally planned in honor of your nameday?  I apologize in advance that there won’t be any pizza or video games, but I did fight the Red Keep event planning staff tooth and nail to make sure there would be no boring string quartet.  The food will be stupid and the company atrocious, but at least the music will be from the era when MTV showed music videos instead of trash about pregnant teenagers, just how you like.  Happy Nameday.”

Daenerys smiled wanly.  “That’s very considerate.  It would almost be sweet if you weren’t so sarcastic.  I now have an almost morbid curiosity about what food could be on offer that you could best describe as ‘stupid.’”

“The kind of food that people enjoy more being seen having rather than actually eating.  Let’s just say I am glad that you’re not allergic to shellfish or chicken wings dipped in and dusted with real 24-karat gold.”

“24-karat gold chicken wings?  You must be kidding,” she said, incredulous.

“I wish I was,” he replied.

Daenerys sighed.  “Will there at least be cake?”

Trystane laughed.  “Of course.  I had no wish for my wife to have my head thrown in Blackwater Bay.  King’s Landing’s most expensive bakery had the honor of providing it.”

A presidential guard opened the limo door, and after Trystane got out, he offered her a hand to help her out of the car.  Some press had been allowed outside the event to take photos of all the notable people arriving, but at a respectable distance.

The surprise of the reporters and cameramen when they saw her walk out onto the red carpet was audible and Daenerys flashed them a brilliant smile as she waved.  On the inside, she couldn’t help but feel just slightly smug.  She wasn’t sporting her usual sedate and modest skirt suit that she wore for her duties as president.  Tonight, she was wearing a shimmering nude strapless dress by Atelier Versace with a daring draped and pointed-edge neckline.  Her hair was elegantly twisted into a silver crown of braids, and the silver dragon brooch Jon had given her on the night of her inauguration was pinned to the corner of her dress.  He had said it was a replica of a pin that had belonged to Queen Daenerys I, and he had had it custom-made for her.  She wore her mother’s ring on her right hand, and her wedding ring on her left.  Of all her many baubles, the dragon brooch and her mother’s ring were the most precious to her.  She had purposely forgone wearing any other jewelry. 

The press was left outside while Daenerys, Trystane, and their guards made their way through the hotel lobby to the ballroom.  When she entered, hundreds of guests greeted her with applause.  She smiled and waved, and secretly hoped that the cake would be worth it.

***

The doorbell rang, and Arya yelled at Ned to get the door for the pizza delivery person.  “You get it, you’re closer,” he protested.

“I’m not wearing any pants,” she yelled back.  “Or would you rather I keep my clothes on all night?”

Ned ran out to the door, regrettably fully-clothed, and Arya laughed.  Ned put the pizza on the coffee table and Arya looked up at him with unconvincing puppy-dog eyes.  “Could you get me another beer, babe?  You’re already up.”

Ned groaned but complied with her request.  Her grabbed a piece of pizza and handed Arya the remote.  “Which one did we watch last?” she asked.

He thought for a moment.  “It was the one where Walt and Jesse kidnap the lawyer.”

“K.  Next one is episode 9, then.”  She cued up the episode and pressed play.

Ned polished off his slice of pizza.  “Not that I’m complaining, since this is so much more fun, but why didn’t you want to go to the president’s nameday gala?  You were invited.”

“What, were you hoping I’d drag you along so that you could report on it?” Arya asked.

“No, you brat,” he said with a smug grin.  “I could have gone without you if I’d wanted to.  The Daynes and Martells are old friends.  I was invited.  They don’t hold it against me that I’m a reporter, not like you do.  I just wondered why you didn’t want to go.”

Arya took a long swallow of her beer.  “I don’t like wearing ball gowns.  And I really don’t like pretending to care about what the rich and famous assholes of the capital think as they look at me with fake sympathy.  ‘Those poor Starks.’  ‘What a tragedy.’ ‘Ned Stark was such a patriot, what a shame.’  I’m so tired of it.”

Arya braced herself for the sad look of sympathy she’d come to expect from people when the subject of her murdered family came up.  She and Ned hadn’t talked about it.  She didn’t talk about it with anyone, not really.

The dreaded look never came.  “I know JSA aren’t investigators per se, but you do have resources.  Resources that would probably shock me, honestly.  Do you guys look for Mance Rayder?”

Arya hesitated.  She didn’t talk about her work with Ned, period.  But for the first time, she found herself wanting to.  “Yes.  That’s pretty much all we do when we’re not doing work for paying clients.”  She didn’t mention Karsi.  It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Ned, but it wasn’t for her to make a unilateral decision about sharing something like that with a reporter.

“Good,” Ned said.  “I hope this doesn’t make you mad, but I admired Ned Stark a great deal.  I’m not just saying that how most assholes in King’s Landing do.  I mean it.  I hope you find that terrorist motherfucker and tear his damned head off.”

“We will,” Arya said fiercely.  “The last thing he’ll ever see is a Stark smiling down at him as he dies.”  _And Roose and Ramsay Bolton, if they were responsible,_ she did not say.

When Ned let out a shaky breath, she thought for a second maybe she’d said too much and frightened him.  But when she saw his eyes, she knew it wasn’t fear that he was feeling.  His eyes, usually a light indigo, had darkened to a brilliant ultramarine.  Not taking her eyes off his, she reached for the remote and turned off the TV.  He licked his lips and Arya knocked him back on the couch and climbed on top of him.

All doubt was removed when he thrust his hips up against her and she felt how hard he was through her thin cotton panties.  She moved her hand down and squeezed him through his pants.  He groaned and eyed her hungrily.

“That’s what you like, isn’t it, Ned?” she teased in a low, husky voice.  “You like an angry, vengeful woman?”  It was something about herself that she embraced, although she knew most people would not.  She was no one’s victim.  She didn’t want to be pitied by her friends.  She wanted to be feared by her enemies.  Ned was one of the only people she had met who seemed to understand that.

“No,” he objected.  “Not any woman.  Only you.”

She leaned back and whipped off her black Bear Island U t-shirt.  She wore nothing underneath it.  Ned’s eyes dropped to her breasts and he started to lift a hand to touch one.  She caught his wrist before he could touch her, then she grabbed the other.  She leaned forward and hauled his arms over his head.  Face to face with him, she captured his full bottom lip between her teeth and bit him lightly.

He moaned, and Arya let his lip go so that she could kiss him properly.  He opened his mouth and she answered by plundering his mouth with her tongue.  When she tightened her grip on his wrists, he thrust up against her with more force.

Arya broke the kiss so she could attack his throat.  She licked a stripe up to his ear and nipped at the soft earlobe.  She whispered into his ear.  “On the one hand, I want to use my hands on you.  But on the other, I don’t want to let you go.  I think you agree, am I right?”

“Yes,” he answered, a little breathless.

“Thought so,” Arya said, grinning against his neck.  She released him and pulled the belt from her robe which had been tossed over the back of the sofa.  She held it up for him to see and he nodded vigorously.

Arya had never tied anyone up before, but she found that it wasn’t so hard to do.  She pulled him up by his shirt and pulled it off before tossing to the ground.  Then she looped the terrycloth belt around Ned’s wrists and tied it off firmly before pushing his arms back over his head.

Ned’s eyes were blown with lust and Arya sat back for a moment to admire her handiwork.  When he squirmed underneath her, she clucked her tongue.  “So impatient,” she chided him.  “You need to keep still.”

She ran her fingernails down his sculpted chest slowly until she reached the waistband of his pants which she pulled at teasingly.  She could tell he was still impatient to have her, but he had stopped resisting her slow tormenting.  He was not a large man, but certainly strong enough to break free of the flimsy binding and overpower her if he desired it.  That wasn’t what he wanted, Arya saw.  His enthusiastic surrender inflamed her, making her cunt ache for him to fill her.  She made herself wait for it.

She rose enough and moved back so that she could pull his pants off, then bent to lick inside his thighs slowly.  When he moaned loudly, Arya lifted her head and met his eyes.  “What do you want, Ned?  Tell me,” she demanded.

“I want your mouth,” he said.  He squirmed as she tugged lightly at his public hair.  Arya grinned.

“Where do you want my mouth?” she asked, moving her fingers to play with his balls.

“I want your mouth on my cock,” he clarified, thrusting his hips up.  She didn’t tell him to be still again.  Instead, she bent over him and took the head of his cock between her lips and swirled her tongue around the sensitive head, lapping at the tip where he was already leaking.  When he groaned with pleasure, she took him in deeper and teased him lightly with her teeth.

At his sharp hiss, she released him to lick up the underside of his cock.  Then she took him into her mouth again, this time until he hit the back of her throat, her mouth stretched to accommodate his girth.  As she swallowed him down, she inhaled his scent, and it made her too impatient to have him inside her.

She let him go and crawled up him quickly as he gasped.  She grabbed his saliva-slicked cock and positioned it at her entrance.  He watched her guide him inside of her, his eyes fixed on where they were joined.  He thrust up into her and they both moaned when he hit the end of her.

“Fuck, _Arya_ , that feels so good,” Ned groaned.  Arya lifted herself and came back down on him hard.  “I need to touch you, please,” he said breathlessly.

Arya pulled at the end of the belt to let him go, and he flung it aside.  He immediately reached take a breast in each hand and squeezed.  Arya’s head fell back, and she rode him faster.  She could feel her body heat and relax, the pleasure of being so perfectly filled almost too much to bear.

“Gods, Ned,” Arya exclaimed as she moved over him.  Ned could sense she was close and moved his hands to grab her hips, keeping her steady as he fucked up into her.

“You’re almost there, I can feel it,” Ned said.  “Come with me, Arya.”  He was nearly panting.  “Come all over me when I fill you up.”

Arya moaned his name again loudly as her climax hit her, and she shook as she felt Ned pulsing into her.  She collapsed onto him, boneless, both of them covered in sweat although the room was not hot.  Ned held her to him and she relaxed into his arms.

Once she had had a moment to recover, she tilted her head up to smile at him wickedly.  “Now aren’t you glad we didn’t waste the night at a stupid nameday party?”

***

Shae could sense the jealousy from her fellow reporters on her way into the gala.  She had smiled prettily for the cameras just like any other guest.  She was one of the few reporters who had been invited; the rest had been banned from coming inside. 

Not that it would do her much good to be here from a work perspective.  Tyrion had made her swear to not report on the gala because it would be seen as favoritism.  He had also not left her side since arriving.  As the wife of the Hand to the President, she was welcome at the president’s nameday party – not as a reporter.

Shae didn’t mind.  She was happy to get a break for a few hours.  She had been hard at work investigating the Frey case that Willas Tyrell had given her.  She had pages and pages of notes and data, but it was difficult to make sense of it all.  She didn’t want to ask anyone for help before she knew there was a real story to be made of it.  The data was missing any sort of explanation for what it showed.  It appeared to be electronic vote counts for some Riverlands districts, but there was no indication of what the votes were for or when they had been cast.

Tyrion led her over to the president’s table where the president was happily reminiscing about the last presidential election with Olenna Redwyne, Jorah Mormont, Rhaenys Targaryen, Robb Stark, and Trystane Martell.  The president encouraged them to sit down with them and offered them some of an especially pricy bottle of Dornish Red.

The president smiled brightly and continued with her election war story.  “The secret to politics is never listen to pollsters,” she opined happily.  “We were down in the North and the Riverlands just days before the election, and even as exit polling was coming in and we were sitting in Sunspear tearing our hair out waiting for returns…”

“I think Olenna and Jorah have already heard this story,” Trystane objected good-naturedly. 

“I haven’t heard it,” Robb said with interest.

“See, honey?  Robb hasn’t heard it,” Daenerys said to her husband.

“So we were down in the North and Riverlands.  Jon and Trystane had their eyes glued to exit polls all day.  The pollsters said we were behind, or that the margins were razor-thin, depending on the poll.  Everyone was going crazy.”

“I remember,” Tyrion said.  He looked a little uncomfortable, but Shae couldn’t see why he would be.  He placed his hand on Shae’s back affectionately.  Olenna smiled politely and gripped her wine glass by the stem.

“The numbers guys said it would all come down to the Riverlands,” Daenerys continued.  “Particularly four small districts in the Riverlands – Harrenhal and the little suburbs around it.” 

Shae’s smile froze on her face and she set her wine glass down shakily.  Jorah happily cracked open a crab leg.  Rhaenys snuggled up against Robb, who pressed a kiss to the side of her head.  Shae saw Trystane’s face twitch slightly as he smiled at his wife. 

“The pollsters said we were trailing slightly in all four.  But at the end of the day, we won them all.  The polls were completely wrong – well, all except our own internal exit polls.  Those were accurate.  We won all four of the districts around Harrenhal,” Daenerys declared triumphantly.  “Not that it ended up mattering since we won so many other districts we were supposed to lose in the Crownlands and the North.  And that’s why you should never listen to pollsters.”

Shae carefully kept her face schooled into a polite smile.  _Riverlands district vote counts.  Harrenhal.  Election rigging_ , she thought.  _This story doesn’t have anything to do with pipeline ballot measures, does it?_

***

Myrcella snagged a canape from a passing tray and took a large bite.  She examined the remainder of the canape before finishing it.  “The food here is stupid, but it doesn’t taste bad.  Have you tried the gold-dusted chicken wings yet?  They’re ridiculous.”

“Too ridiculous for me,” Jon said.  “I had to pass.  The snow crab is decent.  Although I had no idea that the ocean even had so much of it.  Not anymore, I guess.”

Myrcella laughed.  “This is the most pretentious party ever.  I’m having a great time, though.”

Jon smiled.  “I’m glad.  I know I said this before, but you really do look lovely tonight, Myrcella.  That dress is nice.  Especially with the gloves and pearls.  Very Audrey Hepburn.”

Myrcella swirled the skirt of her black satin sheath.  “This old thing?”  She laughed.  “I picked this up at Penney’s the other day.  It was 30 percent off, such a steal.”

Jon cracked up with laughter.  “Very funny, Cella.  That’s a Givenchy, don’t even try to deny it.”

Myrcella groaned.  “Ugh.  I can’t get anything past you, Jon.  Why do you even know these things?”

“Maybe just to annoy you?” Jon teased.  “But let me ask you this.  Did you really have those shoes reinforced, or ‘retrofitted’ as you said?  Because that should be considered a criminal act.  They’re stunning.”

“No, stupid,” Myrcella said.  “So don’t step on my toes.  Are you going to dance with me, or what?”

As Jon led Myrcella to the dance floor, he thought to himself that some very frustrated Red Keep event planners were probably wringing their hands in consternation at the music playlist for this event.  Every single song he had heard since arriving was from the 80s; the current song was “Let’s Go Crazy.”  He said a quick prayer to the old gods for Myrcella’s toes.

He was getting a kick out of all these formally dressed people dancing like idiots.  The movers and shakers of King’s Landing had initially raised their eyebrows at the choice of music, but most of them were now well on their way to drunk if they weren’t already there and no longer cared about musical propriety.  Myrcella wasn’t drunk, but she was still a sight to see flinging herself around in her elegant gown. 

At his amused grin, Myrcella intensified her frenetic dancing.  “This is my jam,” she protested unapologetically.  After they had danced two more lively songs and a slower one started, Jon felt a tap on his shoulder.

“May I cut in?” Daenerys asked.

“He’s all yours, Madam President,” Myrcella said.  She shot Jon a smirk.  “I was just about to go find some more of those golden chicken wings.  I’ll find you later, Jon.”

Jon put his right hand on Daenerys’ back and clasped hands with her with his left.  “I’m not much of a dancer, as you know” Jon warned.

Daenerys gave him a slight smile.  “‘Somewhere Out There’ is a pretty slow song.  I think you can manage.  I didn’t see Senator Baratheon limping off the dance floor.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jon said.  “You look beautiful, Daenerys.”  He looked down at her brooch and smiled.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said.  “That’s very kind.”  Jon furrowed his brow slightly.  He could tell she was upset about something.  She was being too formal.  _Courtesy is a lady’s armor_ , as Sansa would say.

She noticed.  “So, you and Myrcella.  You two thinking of rekindling your college romance?”  He could tell she was trying to not speak in a clipped tone, but not quite succeeding.

He looked into her eyes when he answered.  He could see the vulnerability and uncertainly there.  “No.  Myrcella and I are friends.  That’s all.”  He pulled her as close to him as he dared and whispered in her ear.  “You know there’s only one woman for me, Dany.” 

She hummed in acknowledgement.  “She’s your date, though, right?”

Jon sighed.  “Yes.  The girl I _wanted_ to ask already had a date, and Sansa and Arya both turned me down.  Myrcella took pity on me.”

“Is that what she thinks?” Daenerys asked skeptically.  “That she’s just here taking pity on you?  As friends?”

Jon pulled back slightly so we could look her in the eye again. “Yes.  She knows why I needed a fake date and offered to come with me.”

Daenerys looked alarmed.  “She does?  How?”

“I didn’t tell her, but she knows,” Jon said.  “She figured it out.  Don’t worry about Myrcella.  I don’t have you for very long, and I want to savor it.”  He pulled her close again.  Having her this close and not being able to touch her as he wished to was torture, but it was a sweet torture.

When the song ended, he released Daenerys and looked around.  When he saw Myrcella, he laughed and motioned in her direction subtly for Daenerys to look.  “See?  What did I tell you?”  Myrcella was standing close to Trystane, laughing uproariously at something he had said.

“I don’t get it,” Daenerys said.

“She’s distracting him so I can get you alone,” Jon said.  “Something I specifically told her that she did not need to do.  Not that Myrcella listens to me, or anyone.”  He shook his head.  “I should go get her.  She despises him.  I don’t know how long she can keep up the ruse.”

Daenerys grabbed his wrist to stop him.  “Long enough, I imagine.  I’ve made it twelve years; she can do 20 minutes.  It’s about time House Baratheon did something for the less fortunate.”  She stepped closer to him to whisper.  “Let’s get out of here.”

She led him to the side exit of the ballroom and through an outer door past a presidential guard onto a private balcony.

“The hotel set aside this balcony and the longue next to it for my own personal use,” she explained.  “No one will bother us out here.”

Once they were out on the balcony, Daenerys leaned against the railing and sighed as she looked out into the distance.  Blackwater Bay was dark beyond the lights of the hotel; there was nothing to see.

“I shouldn’t be jealous,” Daenerys said, resigned.  “I shouldn’t be, but I am.  I can’t talk myself out of it.  It’s ridiculous.  I have no right to you.  How I’m feeling tonight, you must feel like that all the time.  You do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jon admitted.

“I watched you with her,” Daenerys said.  “You look like the perfect couple.  She was laughing.  You were smiling.  She blushed and swirled her skirt.  What must you have said, I wonder.  ‘You look beautiful tonight, Myrcella,’ I bet.”  Her mouth fell into a bitter line as she gazed into the black night.

“Lovely.”

“What?”

“I told her she looked lovely.  She made a joke about her dress being from a department store.  When I told her she was lying, she laughed.  What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me why you brought your girlfriend to my nameday party.”

Jon put a hand on the railing and dragged the other through his hair.  “Ex-girlfriend.”

Daenerys huffed.  “Whatever.”

“Did Tyrion tell you he did polling on the audiotape?” he asked.  “I imagine he didn’t.  He told me but said I shouldn’t talk to you about it.  The polling said that eighty-two percent of likely voters believed Trystane.  That means eighteen percent don’t.  Of that eighteen percent, over half thought that it was me with you.  So, all-in-all, about ten percent of likely voters think I’m fucking you, or at least that I have at some point.  I couldn’t show up here without a date.  I couldn’t even stay away and have gossip about why I wasn’t here.”

“You could have made Sansa come with you,” Daenerys countered.

“Make her?”  Jon laughed.  “I can’t make Sansa do anything.”

Daenerys was unmoved.  “She’s your employee.”

“Actually, she isn’t,” Jon said.  “She’s my business partner.  I don’t own any more shares of JSA than anyone else.  Well, except Sam and Satin, since they’re new.”

Daenerys looked at in disbelief.  “What?”

“It’s just image,” he said, gesticulating dismissively.  “Politics.  We’re cashing in on my famous name.”  He said _famous_ as sarcastically as possible.  “What, did you think I brought Ned Stark’s kids down here to kiss my ass and do my bidding?  Come on.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Daenerys said testily.

“Fine,” Jon said.  “I brought my ex-girlfriend here to protect you politically.  She’s completely aware of that fact and it’s no problem.”

Daenerys sighed.  “You don’t get it.  This thing between us, it’s so complicated.  Don’t you think you deserve to be happy?  I saw how she looked at you.  I don’t see how you could fail to notice it.  She’d take you back.  She’s available.  She’s not the president; she doesn’t have a husband or kids.  It would just be so easy.  So normal and uncomplicated.”

Jon was quiet a moment and looked out at the blackness of Blackwater Bay.  “I’m not going to lie to you.  There’s no point, and I don’t want to.  Being with Myrcella _was_ easy.  We never fought.  Not once.  Not about politics, or anything else.  We didn’t even fight about breaking up.  One day, I asked what we were doing after graduation, and she said she was moving back to the Westerlands.  I said I was going back north.  She said, oh damn, I guess that means we have to break up.  I said, yeah, I guess it does.  It was easy to be with her, and easy to not be.”

“You’re both in the same place now,” Daenerys observed.

“Not really,” Jon said.  “Right now, I’m home.  It’s home, because home is where _you_ are.  If tomorrow you said you were leaving and moving to Ibben, I’d follow you.”

Daenerys looked up at him.  “Why?”

“Because I love you,” Jon said.  “I love _only_ you.  I don’t want _easy_ or _normal_ or _uncomplicated.”_   He stepped closer to her, close enough to touch, though he didn’t.  He looked down at her and met her eyes.  He spoke softly, but deliberately, pausing a beat between each word.  “I want painful, difficult, devastating, life-changing, extraordinary love.  Don’t you want that too?”

Daenerys took a deep breath and they were close enough to share air.  “Yes.”

He seized her then and crushed his lips against hers.  She caught his head in both of her hands and grabbed his hair to pull him closer.  Pressed against her, he held her by the waist with one hand and caressed the smooth, exposed skin of her back with the other.  Their teeth clashed, then he pulled her bottom lip between his teeth and bit down lightly.  She moaned, and he released her lip to move his tongue against hers.

They gradually moved back until she was pressed against the glass door leading to the private lounge.  He pushed his hips into her so she that could feel his hard arousal.  When he did, she moaned again.  He pulled at her gown until it was bunched up to her waist.  When he slipped his hand under her silk thong panties, he found her soaking.

“You’re so wet,” he rasped, sliding his fingers between her folds.  “That’s for me, isn’t it, _ñuha dāria_?”

“Always,” Daenerys gasped.  “Only for you, Jon.”

He groaned and moved his lips to her throat.  As he bit and sucked at her soft skin, he was careful not to leave a bruise, as much as he wanted to mark her.  She noticed.

“Bruise me, _ñuhys dārilaros._ I don’t care what anyone says,” she gasped as he sank two fingers into her and pressed his thumb against her throbbing clit.  “Do it,” she pleaded.

He complied and sucked a dark bruise onto her throat, adding a third finger deep into her aching, wet slit.  Once he finished marking her, he bit at her and she exploded around his fingers.  A gush of wetness covered his fingers, and he slowly extracted them as she sagged against him.  He sucked her pleasure off each finger as she watched with hooded eyes.

He smoothed her gown down and straightened the bodice.  He furrowed his brow as he ran his thumb over the blotch of purple marring her pale throat.  It hadn’t been a smart thing to do, but he thought that she had never looked more beautiful, her cheeks flushed with pleasure and his mark on her.

She met his hand with hers, running her fingers over the mark.  “I have some concealer in the lounge,” she said quietly.  “You should go back out.  We probably shouldn’t be seen coming back out together.”

He gave her a sad smile and nodded.

“I love you, Jon,” she said.

He took her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers.  “And I love you, Dany.”

***

“Do you think Malora Hightower got lost on her way to a wizard convention?” Trystane asked.  “I’m sorry, I know she’s your aunt by marriage, but that gown is ridiculous.  I keep waiting for her to trip on her sleeves.”

Myrcella looked over at her uncle’s wife and laughed at Trystane’s observation.  It was accurate.  Her aunt wasn’t going to wind up on any best-dressed list tonight.

Trystane glanced over to the side and regarded Myrcella shrewdly.  “Alright, they’re gone.  You don’t have to pretend to laugh at my jokes any longer.”

Myrcella thought about protesting innocently, but she dismissed it as a pointless endeavor.  “Some of them were funny.  Anyway, I was bored.  I thought I would see if you could amuse me.  You have, so far.”  It was true enough.  She had expected that talking with Martell would be torture, but he had turned out to be funny and charming.  He hadn’t even made a lewd proposition.  That had come as a surprise to her, given his reputation. 

“You don’t find your date amusing?” he asked.

“Not really,” Myrcella said.  “Jon isn’t very funny.  And his dancing skills leave something to be desired.”

“I can’t argue with you on those points,” Trystane said.  “But his political skills are really something, aren’t they?  Much more useful than dancing.  That’s how you came to be chosen Senate Leader, isn’t it?  I followed that whole scandal and its aftermath, and it has Jon Snow written all over it.”

Myrcella smirked and sipped her champagne.  “It doesn’t make much sense.  He and I don’t have much in common, politically at least.  But let’s say he did as you said.  Asking me to speak out about Anders Yronwood’s many misdeeds would put pressure on Yronwood to resign.  One of the more conservative Dornish houses, House Yronwood is.  Perhaps Jon has someone in mind that he does agree with, politically at least, to run for Yronwood’s seat.  A proper liberal, just like Jon.  Maybe some Dornishman to whom he owes a favor, despite some, erm, _personal_ rivalry.”

“Personal rivalry,” Trystane said thoughtfully with a half-smile.  “That’s a delicate way of phrasing it.  But you are right, he does owe me a favor.  Perhaps it’s time for House Martell to return to the Senate.  This would be a good opportunity.  Is that what Jon told you?”

“He barely told me anything,” Myrcella said.  “Only that something was going to happen and that I should be the first to make a statement about it.”

“So he did help you,” Trystane said.  “I think it makes sense, even if you don’t.  Friendship tends to be more useful than political ideology, especially to someone like Jon Snow.  But what I can’t figure out is whether you’re here talking to me to try to make him jealous, or if you’re trying to distract me.  Either way, it didn’t work.”

Myrcella drained her champagne flute and a passing waiter exchanged the empty glass for a full one.  “I was trying to distract you.  And it did work.”

“Did he put you up to that?” Trystane asked.

“Of course not,” she replied.  “He told me not to try, in fact.”  Myrcella thought that Jon would probably not be very happy with her, but she had grown weary of his furtive glances in the president’s direction.  She wasn’t jealous, and Jon had been a perfectly polite and attentive date.  It was more like she felt sorry for her friend.

Trystane laughed.  “You’re too funny.  And here I was thinking Baratheons have no sense of humor.  I still don’t understand why you’d want to come here with that boring fucker.”

“We’re friends,” she said simply.  “Also, I’ll have you know that Baratheons have great senses of humor.  Maybe not Stannis, but the rest of us do.”

Trystane snagged a piece of cheese from a passing tray.  “Is that why he entrusted you with his dirty little secret?  Because you’re friends?”

“He didn’t entrust me with anything,” she said.  “I figured it out on my own.  Not that I’m insulting your wonderful performance at the press conference.  I’m sure most everyone else believed you.”

“Thank you, I guess?” he said, his tone amused.

Myrcella tilted her head and eyed him speculatively.  “Why did you lie for her?  I’m not judging, just curious.”

“I felt a patriotic duty to my country,” he said drolly.

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe,” she said.  “No offense.”

Trystane smirked.  “It was a joke.”

Myrcella laughed.  “Your jokes are terrible, Trystane.  Dance with me instead.  I want to get my 65 dragons worth out of this dress.”

He offered his arm to her and rolled his eyes.  “65 dragons, my ass.”

***

Sansa had gone to find her brother and say hello to his date, Rhaenys Targaryen.  Willas had decided to wait for her on the terrace.  He supposed that eventually he would need to make his peace with the rest of JSA if he and Sansa were going to continue seeing each other, but he wasn’t in a hurry.  He knew that Robb and Rhaenys weren’t responsible for what had happened with the Sam Tarly case, but it didn’t mean that he necessarily wanted to talk to them.  He propped his cane against a padded deck chair and sat down to enjoy the cool night air.  He leaned back to look at the sky, but there was far too much light pollution to see any stars.  It reminded him how much he despised the capital.  At times like these, he thought how much he longed to return to the dark night skies and open countryside of the Reach.

He wasn’t quite alone on the terrace, but only a few people were outside.  There were couples secluding themselves in corners, seeking privacy and quiet respite from the festivities inside.  When he heard a door open, he didn’t turn to look and see who it was.

“Willas,” he heard a female voice say behind him.  He turned to find Shae Lannister approaching him.  She sat down on the chair next to him, perching on the edge.  Her whole body looked tense.

“I’ve been investigating the story you gave me,” she said quietly.  “I can’t talk about here, but I don’t think it’s what you thought it was.  It’s bigger.  Much bigger.”  She finished in a near whisper.

“How do you mean?” Willas said.

“I can’t talk here,” she said.  “In fact, I should probably not be seen talking to you much longer.  I’ll call you to meet once I know more.  In the meantime, you shouldn’t mention this story to anyone or tell anyone I’m working on it.”

“Okay,” Willas said, bemused.

“I saw you came with Sansa Stark,” Shae said.  “You should especially avoid mentioning it to her.”

Shae got up and disappeared back into the party.

***

Daenerys dabbed concealer on her throat and once she was suitably covered, she powdered over it.  She hadn’t intended what had happened on the balcony.  She still wasn’t sure what come over her.  She had meant to take Jon out to the balcony to talk in private, nothing more.  Something about him made her reckless.  It had been so from the beginning.  So, concealer.  And probably a week of scarves.  She sighed.  She didn’t regret it.  She couldn’t bring herself to regret anything when it came to Jon. 

Her guards followed her out into the ballroom, where she saw Trystane leading Myrcella off the dance floor.  It was late, and although there were still plenty of guests still present, it seemed reasonable enough to leave without being rude.  She was tired and very much looking forward to getting out of her stilettos.  She walked over to Trystane and Myrcella.

“I hope this guy hasn’t been bothering you, Senator,” Daenerys said teasingly.

“Not at all, Madam President,” Myrcella replied.  “He was a perfect gentleman.  I hope you’ve had a nice nameday.  Your party was lovely, thank you very much for having me.”

“It was my pleasure,” Daenerys said.  “I think we’ll be leaving soon.  Would you give Jon my regards?”

“Certainly,” Myrcella said politely.  She left to find Jon, whom Daenerys saw was waiting near the exit talking to Sansa Stark and Willas Tyrell.

Daenerys turned to Trystane.  “I’d like to head home now.  I’m a little tired.”

Trystane regarded her shrewdly.  “That would probably be for the best, before your concealer melts off.”

Daenerys smiled beatifically.  “That would never happen.  This is 80-dragons-a-tube La Mer waterproof concealer.  You could throw me in Blackwater Bay and it wouldn’t come off.”

“Don’t tempt me.”  Trystane signaled to their guards and offered Daenerys his arm.

They headed out of the ballroom and through the lobby, flanked by guards.  When they reached the lobby exit, Daenerys saw that Jon and Myrcella were at the other side of the driveway about to get into Myrcella’s car.  A capitol guard assigned to protect the Senate leader opened the car door for her.  Jon glanced quickly in Daenerys’ direction, then turned and said something to Myrcella’s guard.  Missandei, who was already waiting outside, saw Daenerys and Trystane exit and came over to give her a hug.  The presidential limo pulled forward and a guard opened the door, waiting for her.

“Happy Nameday, Madam President,” Missandei said, smiling.  “The gala was lovely.  Your husband did a terrific job with the planning.  I had a wonderful time.”

Daenerys thought to herself that she had had a wonderful time as well.  Despite not wanting to come initially, it had been a good party.  It had been nice to relax and have an evening of fun for a change.  She was about to say as much to Missandei when her friend’s eyes went wide, and she crumpled to the ground in front of her.  At the same time, she registered the unmistakable sound of rifle fire.

Daenerys felt sharp burning sensation in her abdomen and heard more gunshots.  A second later, she felt Trystane pull on her arm to knock her to the ground.  As she was falling, she felt a searing pain over her right ear.  She heard one of her guards yelling something she couldn’t make out, and she saw another guard fall to the ground.

Her vision swam as she hit the ground.  She felt Trystane’s weight on top of her and heard people screaming.  The last thing she knew before blackness overtook her was Jon screaming her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long. I spent more time than was probably strictly necessary researching how best to divide Westeros into time zones, splitting the country into electoral districts, counting votes, etc. Just so many dork things. Anything having to with maps, I tend to go overboard. The next chapter shouldn't take as long.


	12. And That’s When I Know She’s Gonna Be Pissed When She Wakes Up For Terrible Things I Did To Her In Her Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from "Trusted" by Ben Folds. You can find the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).

“Daenerys!” Jon screamed when he saw Trystane knock Daenerys to the ground.  Someone ran through his line of vision, and a second later, he couldn’t see her.  He screamed her name again.

Myrcella grabbed Jon’s hand to try and pull him into the car.  She was yelling something Jon couldn’t make out over the sound of gunfire and people screaming.  Myrcella’s guard pushed Jon’s head down and shoved him into the car.  By the time he had righted himself, the car was already speeding away.  Jon turned around so that he could see out of the back window.  He still couldn’t see Daenerys.  His view was blocked by the presidential limo and people outside running.  He tried the door, but the driver had engaged the child locks on the doors of the backseat.

That’s when he screamed.  He didn’t realize he was screaming, though, just as he didn’t feel the pain in his scalp as he pulled at his hair.

“Jon!” Myrcella said.  He turned at the sharp sound of her voice and dropped his hands into his lap.  A few strands of hair fell onto the leather seat between them.  She grabbed his face with both hands.  “You need to sit down and put your seatbelt on,” she said, her voice now calm.  He was breathing heavily, and his heart was racing.  He blinked and focused on Myrcella.

“We’re in a crisis here, Jon,” she said firmly.  “Don’t you freak out on me when we need you the most.  When Daenerys needs you,” she finished quietly.  Jon swallowed hard and settled into his seat.  He buckled his seatbelt and willed his body to breathe normally.

 _Most people lose their composure in a crisis, and that’s when one needs it the most._ He closed his eyes for a long moment.  _Daenerys needs me._

He leaned forward in his seat to talk to the driver.  “Arys, are you taking Senator Baratheon to the bunker?”

“Yes,” Arys said. 

“Do you know if President Targaryen was injured?” Jon asked.

“Yes.  She was.  She’s being taken to KLU Medical Center.” Arys said.

Jon quickly visualized a map of King’s Landing in his mind.  “That’s not the closest.  Baelor is closer.  By about two miles.”

“KLU is a Level I trauma center,” Arys said.  “That’s why she’s going there.”  It was something Jon knew, but had slipped his mind in the chaos.

Jon cursed under his breath and tried to focus.  Myrcella grabbed his hand.  It wasn’t until she did that he realized he was shaking.  “After you take the senator to the bunker, can you have someone take me to KLU?”

“Yes, Mr. Snow,” Arys said.  “That’s no problem.”

Jon pulled his phone out and dialed Robb.  It took three tries to get through, but finally, Robb picked up.  “Are you and Sansa alright?” Jon asked.

“We’re okay,” Robb said.  “I’m with Sansa, Rhaenys, and Willas now.  They’re having everyone stay inside the hotel until they secure the area.”

“Have they found the shooter?” Jon asked.

“I don’t know,” Robb said.  “They’re not telling us anything.”

Jon cursed in frustration.  “Tell them that the Red Keep Communications Director wants to know and that you’re my agent.  Find out everything you can.  I’m headed to KLU Medical Center right now.  Call me with what you find out.”  He ended the call.

“Red Keep Communications Director?”  Myrcella asked.  “I thought you quit.”

“It’s complicated,” Jon said.  “But that doesn’t matter right now.  I saw Missandei go down.  She’s hurt.  I don’t know how badly.  There’s no one to tell the press what happened.  They’ll assume the worst.”

“They’ll run amok,” Myrcella said.  “The rumors will be worse than the truth.  It could be dangerous.”

“I know,” Jon said.  The car was speeding down the street, but Jon willed it to go faster anyway.

***

Daenerys opened her eyes, but all she saw was a blur and bright light.  She felt so cold.  She thought she might throw up.  She closed her eyes again.

“Stay with me Madam President!” a voice said loudly.  She heard another voice say something she couldn’t understand, but it sounded like Trystane.  The first voice answered him “…surgery, now… she lost a lot of blood.”  The voice sounded closer.  “You’re going to be okay.  Hold on, Madam President.”

 _My name is Dany_ , she thought.  _Where is Jon?  I heard him screaming for me._ The voices and the bright light faded away.

Daenerys dreamed.

_“She lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said.  “She needs to rest.”  The room was cold and white.  Her mind felt as though it had been blanketed in fog.  Under the heavy smell of disinfectant, she could still smell blood._

_Where are my babies?  I want them.  Egg and Nym.  Where are you?_

_“...34 weeks is not unusual for twins… no complications, but they will be in the NICU for a few days.”_

_“Daenerys, honey.  You did so well.  Just rest now.”_

_Angry tears filled her eyes.  Trystane.  Why are you here?  Just leave.  Go away.  What do you care about me or Egg or Nym?  I’m not nothing.  I’ve never been nothing.  Get out.  Her whole body hurt, and she was too exhausted to speak._

_“I’ll let you sleep,” he said._

_She closed her eyes and Trystane faded away._

_Jon, where are you?_

_There was a stain on the eye-searing pattern of the hotel carpet.  It wasn’t red, but something made her think it was blood.  She heard Jon’s voice, but she couldn’t see him._

_“Daenerys, if you could have anything, what would it be?”_

_You.  Just you and me, together always._

_“I want to win this election,” a voice that sounded like her own said._

_No, no that’s not what I said.  That’s not right.  I wouldn’t have said that._

_Jon, where are you?_

***

“What?  Is there some other Red Keep Communications Director you know of?”  Robb said belligerently.  “Call Tyrion Lannister if you don’t believe me.  I have his number right here.”

The agent looked down at the phone Robb was handing out towards him.  “I’m sure you understand that I cannot just hand out information regarding a matter of national security to just anyone.”

Robb tapped on Tyrion’s name to call him himself and quickly explained what he needed and handed the phone to the agent.  The agent listened for a few moments and handed Robb his phone back. 

“My apologies, Mr. Stark,” the agent said, apparently mollified by whatever Tyrion had said.  “We have not found the shooter, but the area has been secured, a perimeter has been set, and agents are searching the area.  You and your friends are cleared to leave if you’d like to, but we are setting up a temporary command center here while we investigate, if you want to stay for updates.”

“Thanks for your help,” Robb said.  The agent nodded and returned to his work.  Robb called Jon and relayed what he had just been told.

“Wait there for now in case they get any new information,” Jon said.  “I’m nearly to the hospital.  They just took Myrcella to the bunker.”

“Where is the Vice President?” Robb asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” Jon said.  “Protocol is that he, Myrcella, Speaker Manderly, and the Small Council all be taken to the bunker.  He should be there already or on his way at least.  I didn’t stay long enough to see who all was there.  I’ll ask Tyrion when I get to KLU.”

***

Daenerys’ eyes fluttered open and she was once again greeted by a blinding white light.  A man in blue stood over her.  Most of his face was covered by a white mask.

“Hello, Madam President.  You’re awake.  We’re going to take good care of you, okay?  You’ve had a bump on the head.  Do you know what year it is?”

“2018,” Daenerys said.  Her voice sounded weak to her own ears.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital,” she slurred.  Her eyelids fluttered.

“Usually this is when I ask if you know who the president is,” the man said and winked at her.

“You’re funny,” she replied.  She considered saying her own name, but it seemed that it would be too difficult.

“Count backwards from 100 for me, okay?” he said.

“100… 99… 98…” Daenerys’ eyes fell closed and the bright light and the man in blue faded away.

_“It’s even colder up top,” Jon said._

_“Thanks.  That’s what I needed to hear.”  The cold wind whipped at her hair._

_“It’s already so much that you’re here.  No one will think any less of you, Senator.”_

_I’m not nothing.  I’ve never been nothing._

_The sun shone brightly through the window, defying her angry melancholy.  She willed a cold rain to lash at the stately Dornish residence instead.  Sleet, biting wind, and gray skies._

_“What did you expect, Daenerys?  I tried, I really did.  What did I get for my trouble?  Nothing.  Nothing!  You’re never anything but cold to me, ever.  A gods damned ice princess.  Our marriage is a complete joke.  Why do you even care what I do?”  Trystane turned away from her, not waiting for an answer.  Her tongue tied with rage, she didn’t attempt one.  He faded away._

_I’m not nothing._

_Trystane and the rest of the campaign staff had retreated to their rooms after a long day of traveling, speeches, kissing babies, and more traveling.  She and Jon had been left alone in the darkened lounge.  Jon set down his wine glass and looked at her.  His eyes looked black in the dim lighting.  She had never felt so seen.  The penetrating gaze should have made her feel uncomfortable, but in fact it did the opposite.  It wasn’t until she exhaled roughly that she realized she’d been holding her breath._

_“I think I’m going to turn in,” she said.  “Maybe I’ll see you in a bit.”  She slid her extra room key across the table._

_He looked surprised.  “What about Trystane?” he asked._

_“He’s in his own room, most likely with that blond waitress with the over-active eyelashes.  Maybe the red-headed one too, for all I know.  Even if he knew, he wouldn’t care.”_

_Jon took in a sharp breath, and after a moment, pocketed the key card.  She smiled at him and made her way through the lobby.  It was quiet, the clicking of her high heels on the tile the only sound to be heard._

***

When Jon arrived at the entrance to the KLU Medical Center’s emergency room, he saw that beyond a perimeter set by the presidential guard, the outside was mobbed with reporters.  He wanted to run through the doors as fast as his feet could carry him, but after seeing the press, he forced himself to walk normally with his head held high as he ignored their shouted questions.

He saw Tyrion as soon as he entered the ER.  Tyrion had his back to the door and was in the middle of giving rapid-fire instructions to a deputy in the Hand’s office, Podrick Payne.

“…set up briefings on security and defense within the hour.  We need to raise the threat level and close the stock exchange.  I want you to call the Secretary of State and tell him I said to call each of our ambassadors and inform them of the president’s medical condition.  Tell him to give them instructions to notify all the counties with whom we have diplomatic relations that the president is _very much alive_.  Make sure that they know that Press Secretary Missandei Naath was critically injured and that is why there has been no statement to the press.”  Podrick was frantically scribbling down all this information into a small notepad.  “Next, call Governors Gardener, Dondarrion, Tully, Lannister, Bolton, Royce, and Greyjoy.  In that order.  Give them the same information and don’t waste too much time on any one.  Advise them to increase their security details.”

“What about…” Podrick started to ask. 

Tyrion cut him off.  “Governors Targaryen and Martell have already been notified.  When you speak with the governors, tell them that someone from the communications office will be updating them shortly.”  He let out a groan of frustration.  “Where the fuck is Jon?  He’s supposed to be on his way.  Robb Stark said…”  Tyrion trailed off when he finally noticed Jon standing there.  He let out a relieved breath.  “Thank the gods.  Let me know when you’ve finished with all that, Pod.”

Podrick nodded and started dialing a number as he walked away.

Tyrion looked at Jon accusingly.  “Where the hell have you been?  It’s been…” he looked at his watch.  “Thirty-two minutes.  Huh.  Feels like five hours.”

“How is Daenerys?” Jon asked, ignoring Tyrion’s question.

“She’s in surgery,” Tyrion said.  “She was shot in the abdomen and in the head.  The wound in the head was just a graze, but the abdominal wound is serious.  She also hit her head when Trystane knocked her down.  Saved her life, but she may have a skull fracture.  I saw her when they brought her in, only for a moment.  She was conscious but disoriented and she didn’t speak.  Her eyes were open.  She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Tyrion had given this report in the same rapid-fire manner of his instructions to Podrick, as if he had set himself on auto-pilot.  Jon was not prepared to hear such news in this fashion and swayed on his feet, the blood drained from his face.

It took all his strength to ask the next questions.  “How did the doctors describe her medical state?  What’s the prognosis?”  He barely recognized the calm voice as his own.

“Critical but stable.  They said the prognosis is good if the abdominal surgery goes well and they can control the bleeding.  They’re concerned about the head injury, possible swelling.”

Jon nodded.  “And Missandei?”

Tyrion grimaced.  “She’s in bad shape.  The doctors are trying to stabilize her.”

“Fuck,” Jon said, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Jon had worked closely with Missandei at the Red Keep, and he knew how good she was at her job.  There was no replacing her.  More important than that, she was a friend.  “What about Trystane?  I saw him fall.”

“He didn’t fall,” Tyrion said.  “He wasn’t shot.  He jumped on top of Daenerys after he threw her down.  I have no idea how he didn’t get hit.  The guard standing right next to him was killed.”

“I need to make a statement to the press immediately,” Jon said.  “They’re swarming out there, reporting gods only know what.  Any progress on finding the shooter?”

“None yet,” Tyrion said.  “You should take Trystane out with you.  Good optics.  It will give them something to talk about other than the president being operated on, or that the shooter may have escaped.”

“I agree,” Jon said.  Jon knew from experience how readily the media jumped on the hero narrative, as tired as it was.  It would be a good distraction while they held their breath and waited for Daenerys to come out of surgery.  “Where is he?”

Tyrion’s face twisted uncomfortably, and he tilted his head towards the corner of the waiting room.  That’s when Jon saw that the person he had spotted hunched over sitting on the floor was Trystane.  “I’ve tried talking to him, but he’s ignored me and hasn’t moved from that spot since they took the president into surgery.  Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

Jon looked incredulous.  “Why would you say that?”  He and Trystane had worked together on the Westerling protest, but that was all that really could be said for their friendly interactions.

“Whatever it is that makes you so damned calm, maybe you can pass it on,” Tyrion said.

Jon nodded uncertainly and looked over at Trystane.  He walked to the corner and sat on the floor next to him.  When he did, he saw something shiny on the white and gray linoleum floor.  It was Daenerys’ dragon pin, spattered with blood.  Jon tried to swallow the lump that formed in his throat.  He ran his fingers over the pin for a moment then closed his hand around it.  Trystane didn’t look up and remained sitting with his head in his hands.  Jon typically knew just what to say in any situation, but this was an exception.  He could feel the sharp edges of the pin poking his hand.  Then he remembered what Myrcella had said to him.

“Trystane,” he said sharply, trying to get his attention.  Trystane looked up and blinked at Jon, almost like he didn’t recognize him.  “You need to get up,” Jon continued.  “We’re in a crisis here, Trystane.  Don’t freak out on me now, when we need you the most.  When Daenerys needs you.”

When Trystane’s eyes flashed with anger, Jon knew that Myrcella’s words had had the desired effect.  Jon stood up and extended his hand to Trystane to help him up.  Trystane ignored it and got up on his own.  Jon gasped when he saw that Trystane’s clothes were covered in blood.

Trystane considered Jon derisively and straightened his blood-soaked jacket.  One side of the collar of his white dress shirt was red with blood.  “What?  Afraid of a little blood?  What do you want?”  His words were clipped and angry.

“We need to give a statement to the press outside,” Jon explained.  “You should be there.”

“You’ve chosen a strange day to return to your duties, Snow,” Trystane said.  “Even so, surely you can manage the press without my help.”

“I can’t,” Jon said.  “Not for this.  People need to be reassured and seeing you will do that.  United front.  The situation is under control.  Gives the media something good to report instead of whatever it is that they’re saying.”

Trystane understood immediately and groaned.  “That’s the plan you and Tyrion came up with?  Distraction via the old hero narrative?  For fucks sake.  What color wolf will I be?”

“I’m sure the media will select an appropriate moniker,” Jon said tiredly.  “This is the carefully considered communications strategy of the president’s advisors.  Unless you have a better one, we should do this quickly.” 

Trystane merely sighed in response.  Jon felt some remorse for not simply leaving the man be, but it was a matter of national security.  He didn’t have a choice.  “We can have someone bring you new clothes,” Jon said carefully.

“No,” Trystane said vehemently.  “I want them to see what was done to her.  They should have to see it.  I had to.  I’m not changing until Daenerys is out of surgery.”

Jon nodded, too worn down to argue.  “You should do something about your hair, though,” Trystane said, eyeing Jon speculatively.  “You look like a damned wildling.  Optics.”

Jon rolled his eyes and combed his hair with fingers half-heartedly.  “Let’s do this.”

***

_She didn’t have to read the letter to know that Jon was gone.  She could feel it.  It was like she had always known that this was what was waiting for her at the end of this road.  The letter sat innocently on her desk, crisp white standing out on the polished wood._

_“Dear President Targaryen,_

_It is with regret that I hereby request that you accept my resignation of the office of Red Keep Communications Director, effective immediately.  It has been an honor and a privilege to serve you and the people of the Republic of Westeros._

_Kind regards, Jon Snow”_

_No.  I do not.  I do not accept it.  Fuck your kind regards._

_I do not accept it._

_“Jon,_

_I am in receipt of your letter requesting my acceptance of your resignation of your position as Red Keep Communications Director.  It is with regret that I must inform you that I am unable to approve your request at this time, or at any time in the foreseeable future._

_Respectfully, President Daenerys Targaryen”_

_She clicked on the send button without rereading the email.  She knew it wouldn’t matter.  Jon would do as he wished._

_Blood ran into her eye and the wind howled.  Hanging by a single rope, she was pulled up the frozen wall.  She had never felt such terror, not even from her father.  Not even when she felt her life slipping away on the birthing bed._

_“Take my hand!”_

_The wall of ice and the frozen sky faded away._

_Jon, where are you?_

***

Ned’s phone vibrated on the coffee table.  He untangled himself from Arya to grab it.  Taking one look, he jumped off the sofa and ran to his bedroom to throw on clothes.  He threw his notebook and phone into his bag.

“What happened,” Arya asked.

“The president’s been shot,” Ned said.  “I have to go.”

Arya’s eyes went wide.  “Fuck,” she exclaimed, scrambling to put her clothes on.  “I’m coming with you.”

“Fine, but we have to leave now,” Ned said.

“I’m ready,” Arya said, pocketing her phone and slipping her shoes on.

They ran to Ned’s car and he peeled out of the apartment complex parking lot and headed towards downtown.  “What happened?” Arya asked once they were on the road.  The streets of the capital were empty at this late hour, but sirens could be heard in the distance.

“I don’t know much,” Ned replied.  “I don’t think anyone does.  It just happened.  President Targaryen was leaving her nameday gala when shots were fired at the entrance of the Bar Emmon Grand.  The president was hit.  I don’t know how badly she was hurt of if anyone else was shot.  They took her to KLU Medical Center.  There’s been no statement from the Red Keep yet.”

Arya had forgotten about the party in the commotion.  She was dialing Robb before Ned finished talking.  He answered on the second ring.

“Arya,” he said.

“Are you okay?” Arya asked.  “Sansa and Jon?”

“We’re all fine,” he reassured her.  “Sansa and I were inside when it happened.  Jon was there, but he wasn’t hit.”

“Who did this?” Arya hissed.

“No one knows yet,” Robb said.  “Sansa and I are waiting here to see what we can find out.  Where are you?”

“I’m with Ned,” Arya said.  “We’re going to KLU to find out what happened.  There’s been no press statement.”

“That’s because the press secretary was shot,” Robb said.  “Jon’s on his way to KLU.  He’ll make a statement once he finds out what’s happening.”

“Fuck,” Arya said.  “I’ll call you back in a bit.  We’re almost there.”

Arya and Ned joined the throng of reporters just as Jon and Trystane came through the hospital entrance.  Dozens of reporters immediately started shouting at Jon to try and get his attention.

Jon held up his hand to silence the reporters.  They quieted quickly.

“I’m going to make a brief statement, and then I’m going to ask that you hold your questions until I can give a formal press briefing at the Red Keep.  That will be in three hours.  There will be no further statements made here to avoid distractions for the hospital staff.  All press inquiries should be made directly to the communications office.”

“At 10:45 this evening, shots were fired at the entrance of the Bar Emmon Grand Blackwater Bay.  President Daenerys Targaryen was leaving her nameday gala when an unknown assailant opened fire.  She was shot twice, once in the abdomen and one shot grazed the side of her head.  At that point, she was knocked to the ground by her husband, Trystane Martell, who jumped on top of her to prevent her from sustaining any further gunshot wounds.  Mr. Martell’s prompt action prevented the president from being shot in the head; however, she did sustain a head injury from falling.  She is currently in surgery and her doctors consider her to be in critical but stable condition.  We will not know more about her medical condition until the surgery has been completed.”

“Two others were also shot; Presidential Guard Osmund Kettleblack, who died at the scene; and Press Secretary Missandei Naath, who is being treated for her injuries and is in critical condition.  Mr. Kettleblack has served in the Presidential Guard with distinction for ten years, safeguarding the lives of three presidents and their families.  We all owe him a debt of gratitude for his service to his country.  We ask you and the people of Westeros for your prayers for the Kettleblack family, and for swift recovery of both President Targeryen and Ms. Naath.”

Jon turned to Trystane and said something Arya couldn’t hear.  Trystane stepped forward to address the reporters.  It was then that Arya saw that he was covered in blood.  _Seven hells_ , Arya thought.  _Jon let him come out here like that?_ It made more sense when she heard Trystane’s statement.

“I want the people of Westeros to know that there is no person in our country stronger or more fierce than Daenerys Targaryen.  She’s fighting for her life the same way she fights for this country and she will not be defeated.”  He said each word as though he was spitting it out.  “If my wife were out here speaking to you all, she would tell you to never give up hope, just as she does not.  Darkness will not prevail.  The coward who perpetrated this hateful act will not prevail.  And to that coward, I would like to say this: we will find you.  You will be brought to justice and you will face the wrath of a vengeful nation.”

Trystane abruptly turned and walked back into the hospital.  Jon spotted Arya in the crowd as some of the newer reporters to the Red Keep press pool tried to ask Jon questions.  They quickly learned that “hold your questions” was not a suggestion coming from Jon.  Their attempts were met with stony silence.

“Arya!” he shouted.  She pushed to the front as the more experienced reporters started to disperse.  “What are you doing here?”

“I came with Ned,” she said.  The reporter in question had followed Arya but knew better than to try to ask Jon anything.  Jon took a moment to size Ned up, then extended his hand.

“It’s nice to properly meet you, Ned,” Jon said.  “Arya’s told us so much about you.”

“You as well, Jon,” Ned replied.

“So, you’re back at the Red Keep?” Arya asked.

“For now,” Jon said.  “I don’t know how long it will be until Missandei can return to work, or if…” he trailed off, looking at Ned warily.

“Off the record, Ned.  Right?” Arya said.

“Of course,” Ned assured her.

“It’s bad,” Jon said reluctantly.  “They were still trying to get her stabilized when I came out here.  I’m going to check again before I go to the Red Keep.”

Arya shook her head sadly.  “I can’t believe that this could happen.  They really don’t know anything about the shooter?”

“Not yet,” Jon said.  “But whoever it is was not going to get away with this.  He had better hope that the federal police find him before I do.”  Arya had rarely heard Jon speak with such vicious certainty.  “I need you to do something for me, Arya.  I’m going to be at the Red Keep for a while.  I don’t know for how long.  Can you go to my house and get my car and some of my clothes and things and bring them to the Red Keep?  Myrcella’s driver brought me here.  And I don’t know who’s left of the communications staff from when I was there.  I need someone there I can trust while you guys take care of things at JSA.  Can you call Satin and ask him to come to the Red Keep to help me?”

Arya nodded.  “Ned can take me,” she said.  “We’ll swing by your place on our way to the Red Keep for the press conference.”  Jon sighed and considered Ned a moment.

“One question,” he said.

“Where is the Vice President?” Ned asked without hesitating.

“I don’t know,” Jon said.  “He’s supposed to be at the bunker.  I don’t know if he’s there yet, but I do know that Senate Leader Myrcella Baratheon is there.  I saw her go inside.”

Ned scribbled what Jon had said into his notebook.

Arya studied Jon a moment.  “Are you okay?” she asked gently.

“No,” Jon admitted.  “But there’s no time for that.  I’ll see you at the Red Keep.”

***

_She ended the call with Dr. Dayne and let her phone drop to the floor.  She was alone.  Trystane had walked away from her in disgust once he had seen the look on her face.  Her happiness of two days ago had turned to ashes in her mouth.  Their last two embryos had implanted this time, and the initial pregnancy test had shown a positive.  But today, her hCG levels had dropped to nearly zero.  A third failure.  She gripped the cobalt tiled kitchen counter in an effort to stay on her feet.  To remain standing, she would not fail at this._

_I’m not nothing.  She held onto the thought like a lifeboat in a stormy sea._

_A door slammed, and she realized that Trystane had gone.  She made a decision._

_I’m sorry, Trystane.  I tried.  I really did._

_She packed an overnight bag and slung it over her shoulder.  She stopped by Trystane’s desk and left her wedding ring on top of his laptop.  She thought about leaving a note, but there wasn’t anything to say, was there?  Dr. Dayne had said everything that needed saying._

_A day later, she stood at a window in the governor’s mansion in Dragonstone, watching waves crash on the beach.  Her father had gone on some diplomatic mission to Lys, leaving only Rhaegar to greet her when she arrived._

_“As far as I’m concerned, you can stay here as long as you’d like,” Rhaegar said.  “But you know what father will say when he comes back.”_

_“It’s just for a few days, until I decide what’s next.”_

_“I wish I knew what was wrong, Dany.  You can talk to me, you know.”  All she had said when she arrived was that she had left Trystane and that their marriage was over._

_“I know, Rhae.  I just… I’m not ready yet.”_

_She saw a black Aston Martin snaking its way up the road to the mansion and she tensed.  Rhaegar looked out the window then and scowled._

_“Don’t worry about this, Dany.  I’ll get rid of him.  Go wait in your room and I’ll come get you when he’s gone.”  He kissed her on the forehead.  It had been so long since someone had touched her lovingly that she nearly wept.  She nodded and climbed the stairs to her room._

_She heard yelling downstairs and became worried.  She left her room and stood at the top of the stairs.  Rhaegar had his hands balled into fists and Trystane looked unsteady on his feet.  He looked up at her.  His eyes were red, and blood trickled from his lip.  She found herself walking down the stairs._

_“Daenerys, go back to your room,” Rhaegar said._

_“It’s okay,” she replied calmly.  “I’ll talk to him.  Just give us a minute, okay?”_

_Rhaegar pursed his lips, but he left her and Trystane alone._

_Trystane said her name, but she ignored him.  She went into the guest bathroom and ran a washcloth under running water.  She approached Trystane and cleaned the blood off his face.  He was quiet while she did._

_“Why are you here, Trystane?”_

_“I came to bring you home.”_

_She laughed bitterly.  “You wasted your time.  Just go.  You don’t want to miss the last ferry.”_

_“Daenerys, please.”_

_“I tried.  I guess you did too, maybe.  We failed.  It might not seem like it right now, but this is for the best.  The main purpose of an arranged marriage is having children, and I can’t do that for you.  So what’s the point?”_

_“Didn’t Gerold call you?  The lab fucked up.  You’re still pregnant.”  His eyes looked so hopeful.  She couldn’t bring herself to feel the same.  It was too late._

_She was quiet a long moment.  She dropped the washcloth on the floor.  She bit her lip and looked down at the carpet._

_She shook her head.  “It doesn’t matter.”_

_His face fell.  “What?  Of course it matters!  This is what we wanted!”_

_“I’m sorry, Trystane.  I can’t.  Just go.”_

_He let out a noise that was half gasp, half sob.  He fell on his knees and grasped her hand._

_“Please don’t do this, Daenerys.  I’m sorry.  I was a huge asshole to you, I know I was.  There’s no excuse.  I should never have done or said the things I did.  I was a fool.  Please forgive me.  We’re going to be a family.  Please don’t leave me.  I swear everything will be different.”  The words came out in a rush._

_She closed her eyes and shook her head._

_He was crying now.  His lips trembled as he kissed her hand.  “I’m sorry, Daenerys.  I’m so sorry.  I love you.  Please come home.”  He pulled her ring from his pocket and pressed it into her hand._

_At that moment, she suddenly felt her anger return.  She had assumed before today that a person’s heart hardening was a gradual thing.  It wasn’t.  For her, it happened in a second.  Love?  He doesn’t even know what that means.  She pulled on his hand to get him to stand up.  She crossed her arms and took a deep breath._

_“Fine, Trystane.  I’ll come back with you.  On one condition.”_

_“Anything,” he said.  His eyes looked so sincere.  Liar._

_“I don’t want you to change.  Just keep up with your lying, whoring ways.  Don’t ever try to tell me that you love me again.  Ever.  You don’t.  You could never love anyone.  You’re someone I can’t trust, and I don’t ever want to forget it.”_

_He furrowed his brow in confusion._

_She stared at him, her teeth clenched and her eyes cold.  “Do we have an arrangement?”_

_He let out a shaky breath and nodded.  He looked so sad and she couldn’t figure out why.  This should be just what he wanted.  Right?_

_“Yes,” he said.  He wiped his face with the back of his hand._

_She slid the ring onto her finger. Then she turned her back on him and went upstairs to pack her things._

***

When Jon and Tyrion arrived at the Red Keep, they found a state of chaos.  Staffers were flitting about, doing nothing useful.  They quickly learned that Jaime Lannister had arrived in dramatic fashion 20 minutes before, accompanied by his twin sister and a dozen aides loyal to House Lannister.  A terrified intern informed them when asked that the Lannisters were in President Targaryen’s office.

Tyrion cursed, and Jon saw red.  They stormed into Daenerys’ office to find Jaime standing by the president’s desk and Cersei holding court in the sitting area with her aides.

“Are you the president?” Tyrion screamed at his brother.  “No!  No, you’re not!  What the fuck do you think you’re doing in her office?”

Before Jaime could answer, Cersei spoke up.  “Watch your tongue, you little monster.”

She would have said more, but Jaime cut her off.  “President Targaryen was shot in the head.  The country needs leadership.  There is too much work to be done to argue about whose office this is.”

“Mr. Vice President, you are confused about several things,” Jon said forcefully.  “First off, if you had been watching the news in the past half hour, you would know from my statement that President Targaryen was _not_ shot in the head.  The initial reports made by some news outlets were inaccurate.  A bullet grazed her scalp, very minor.  She has a head injury from falling, and while the doctors are concerned about intercranial swelling, they have said nothing about it being fatal or even serious.  Second, while you are correct that the country needs leadership, you are wrong about who that leader is.  In case you missed this part of the Constitution of the Republic of Westeros, that person is the _president_.  Not the Vice President.  The President of Westeros, in case you forgot, is Daenerys Targaryen.  In the event the president is indisposed, the person who acts in her stead is the Hand to the President.  Again, _not_ the Vice President.  The Vice President’s sister has no official governmental role whatsoever and should leave immediately _before I have her forcibly removed_.”

“And what official role does the former Red Keep Communications Director have?” Jaime asked derisively.  “None, if I recall correctly.”

“Tyrion, if you would, can you explain to the Vice President my employment status here?” Jon asked calmly.

“The president explicitly declined to accept Jon’s resignation,” Tyrion said.  “In writing.  Technically speaking, he never stopped being the Red Keep Communications Director.  And he is correct in his interpretation of the Constitution.  Until such time that President Targaryen dies, resigns, or is impeached, she remains the president and there is no mechanism whatsoever that allows the Vice President to act on her behalf.  I’m in charge here.”

Jaime reacted to this statement with little surprise, but Cersei was livid.  Much like a cornered animal, she bared her teeth.  Jon half-expected her to start growling.

Tyrion continued.  “As the President’s Hand, and on her behalf, I order you to let the Presidential Guard escort you to the bunker, for your own safety, where you should have been for the past hour.  I also concur with Jon’s statement that Cersei is to leave the Red Keep premises immediately.  Her presence here is unnecessary and counter-productive.”

“Or what?” Cersei hissed.  “You’ll have me dragged out of here in front of every news camera in Westeros?”

“I will.  Don’t doubt it for a second,” Jon snarled at her.  “I would suggest that you not make a scene unless you’d like me to make second statement to the press, this time about you and your many misdeeds.  I’ve already wasted more time than I’m willing to on your bullshit.  Get the fuck out.”

“I let you threaten me once, bastard,” Cersei said venomously.  “It’s not going to happen again.”

At the mention a threat against his sister, Jaime went white with fury.  Cersei noticed, and her smug satisfaction was like a living, pulsating thing.

“Is that right?” Jaime asked.  “Did you threaten my sister?”

Jon shrugged.  “I see it as my having done her a favor, but I suppose it’s open to interpretation.”

Jaime’s face twisted into a snarl.  Cersei smirked, while Tyrion merely looked confused.  Jon was somewhat surprised that their younger brother didn’t know the truth.

“I’d be happy to explain, but it should be in private.”  Jon rose an eyebrow at Jaime and glanced quickly at the aides, who had been quiet during the confrontation and stayed huddled near Cersei.

“Give us the room,” Jaime said.  Cersei attempted to object, but Jaime silenced her, holding up his hand.  Tyrion and Cersei left, along with her retinue.  The door closed behind them.

“Explain yourself, Snow.” Jaime said, his tone clipped.

“When Joffrey raped Sarella Martell, I was contracted by the Martell family, specifically Oberyn Martell,” Jon said.  “I don’t know if you’re aware, but it was far from the first time that Joffrey had perpetrated this particular crime.  Understandably, the Martells were concerned that Cersei would come to her son’s aid as she has many times in the past and ensure that he escaped justice yet again.  I made sure that didn’t happen.”

Jaime said nothing, but his murderous glare had dropped slightly in intensity.

“As it happened, I had a way to resolve the matter peacefully,” Jon continued.  “I’m sure that I don’t need to explain to you that it took more than a bit of convincing to get Oberyn Martell to accept such a resolution of the problem, or what method of redress he would have preferred.”

From the look on Jaime’s face, it was clear to Jon that indeed, no explanation was necessary.

“I have in my position information that would ensure Joffrey was brought to justice,” Jon explained.  “Something which would prevent Cersei from being able to threaten, bribe, or otherwise influence a DA, judge, or jury.  The easiest thing to do, naturally, would be to simply release the information.  I told Cersei this.  Out of respect for you, Tommen, and Myrcella, I gave Cersei the option of cooperating with Joffrey’s prosecution in lieu of releasing these documents.  I suppose I don’t need to tell you what information they would have revealed.”

Jaime closed his eyes for a moment and pursed his lips.  “No, you don’t.”

“You’re a reasonable person, and intelligent,” Jon said.  “I’m sure that you can see my actions as the favor they were intended as, rather than a ‘threat,’ as Cersei claims.”

Jaime sighed.  “Who else knows?”

“My team.  The president.  Trystane and Oberyn Martell.  The people who provided the documents.  No one else,” Jon said.

“The president knows?  When did she learn?” Jaime asked, surprised.

“Two weeks before the primary,” Jon answered.

“And you still…” Jaime trailed off.  His eyes widened.  “That was some risk you took.  You wanted to win that badly?”  He shook his head in disbelief.

“Yes,” Jon replied.

“You don’t intend on sharing this information with anyone else?” Jaime asked.  “Not even Myrcella?”

Jon sighed.  “Myrcella and I are friends.  It’s not right for me to keep it from her.  But I have anyway.  I haven’t decided if I will tell her.”

Jaime eyed him shrewdly.  “I suppose you would know better than anyone how hurtful such knowledge can be.”

Jon’s blood suddenly turned to ice.  “Every single person in Westeros knows I’m a bastard.  I myself have known since I was old enough to know what the word meant.  I’m not sure I understand the purpose of your statement.”

“I mean that nearly every person in Westeros thinks you have no father,” Jaime replied.  “Only a few know that you do, or who he is.  I imagine you’d like to keep things that way, considering the circumstances.”

Jon’s mind raced.  Until this moment, he would have sworn on his life that he knew the names of every single person who knew what Jaime was insinuating that he knew.  _None of them would have told Jaime Lannister, even if threatened.  Hells, probably not even under torture.  How could he have learned?_   “If you’re trying to threaten me, you should know that it isn’t going to work.  In fact, it will most likely backfire spectacularly.”  He spoke as coolly as he could manage.

“You’re a reasonable person, and intelligent,” Jaime mocked.  “I’m sure you can see my statement as the favor it was intended as, and not the ‘threat’ that you’re implying it is.”

Jon glared at him.  _The smug dolt thinks he has me cornered.  He’s very wrong about that._   His mind naturally moved towards ways that he could take out this new enemy, but he reminded himself to stay focused.  There wasn’t time for that now.  Not yet.

Jaime laughed.  “Always nice talking with you, Jon.  I hope you’ll excuse me; I have a lot of work to do, as do you, I’m sure.  I’ll go to the bunker if that’s what you want.  It doesn’t make any difference to me.  If Cersei’s presence here bothers you, I’ll take her with me.”

***

It was morning, finally.  Trystane saw the pale light begin to stream through the windows.  It made him feel more hopeful for some reason he couldn’t explain.  Every hour that passed without a doctor coming out to tell him that his wife had died seemed like a victory.  The nurses had told him that Daenerys would be in surgery for several hours and that he should go home and get some rest.  He couldn’t bring himself to do it.  He couldn’t tolerate the idea of being any farther away from her than he already was.  He sat in the waiting room all night, unable to sleep.

Not that he could share the fact of his lonely vigil with Daenerys.  She would be angry if she knew.  _I can just say it’s a show for the press_ , he thought.  _She’ll laugh and say that I’m getting better at lying every day.  Such a useful skill in politics_.  Suddenly, he was hit with the idea of how stupid it was that he had to pretend to despise his own wife.  How stupid it was that he’d been afraid to tell her he loved her even when he thought she was bleeding to death in an ambulance.  _It doesn’t matter,_ he thought. _It’s too late.  Even if she lives.  Far too late._

_You could never love anyone._

_I’m being a fool.  I should go back to the Red Keep.  Tansy is probably sitting at her desk, twiddling her thumbs.  She’d be more than happy to distract me and set my head right.  The last thing Daenerys would want is me sitting here covered in her blood, brooding over my regret at our abortion of a marriage._

The door opened, and a surgeon in blue scrubs and a doctor in a white coat came out.  Trystane stood and searched their faces for some sign of news, good or bad.  He found nothing to indicate what they might say, one way or the other.

“Mr. Martell, I’m Dr. Luwin,” the surgeon said.  “I operated on your wife.  The surgery went well, and we removed the bullet from her abdomen and repaired the damage.  She’s in recovery now, but she’s still under sedation while we wait for the swelling in her brain to come down.  That’s already starting to happen.  Based on her MRI and CAT scans, I expect that she will make a full recovery.”

Trystane exhaled in a rush.  “Thank the gods.”  He felt light-headed and stumbled.  The doctor reached out to steady him.  “Thank you,” he said, gasping for breath.

“She’s very strong,” Dr. Luwin said.  “I’m going to check on her progress now.  This is Dr. Maegyr.  She has some additional things to go over with you.”

“Did you operate on Daenerys as well?” Trystane asked the second doctor.

“No, Mr. Martell,” she replied.  “I’m a perinatologist.  That mean that I specialize in…”

Trystane interrupted her, his voice quavering.  “I know what it means.”  His chest felt tight.  He felt like he was going to pass out.

“I see,” Dr. Maegyr said.  “Are you okay?”  She looked at him with concern.

Trystane struggled for a moment to answer her.  Eventually, he choked out a reply.  “Yes.  I’m fine.  Just tell me, please.”

“I was called in after the ER doctors completed their diagnostic scanning when your wife first came in,” she said.  She regarded him sympathetically.  “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

***

_Daenerys hadn’t wanted to get married in Dragonstone’s dreary sept.  She had prevailed upon her father with Trystane’s help to allow the ceremony to be held on the beach.  Of all places in Dragonstone, it was the one place she had always felt happy and safe.  She felt more at home here than anywhere else.  She knelt in her flowing white gown and held her hand against the wet sand, drawing strength from it._

_She had only known Trystane for a few days, but she liked him well enough.  Her initial terror at her father’s demand had been replaced with cautious optimism.  Her betrothed was funny and charming, and seemed interested in her opinions.  Unlike almost everyone else she knew or had ever met, he didn’t seem afraid of her father in the least.  He listened to her when she talked.  In the handful of conversations that they had had._

_She walked past the assembled guests and when she reached Trystane, he gave her a confident smile.  She found herself smiling back.  Maybe this can be something._

_Trystane swung an orange, red, and gold cloak over her shoulders with a flourish.  It was a silly, old-fashioned custom, but somehow, she felt like she had truly come under his protection.  The septon said some words she didn’t pay much attention to.  They both recited the ancient vows.  “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger.  I am his, and he is mine.  From this day, until the end of my days.”_

_She looked at him hopefully.  For the first time in her life that she could remember, she didn’t feel frightened in the presence of her father._

_“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Trystane said.  He kissed her gently.  She wasn’t afraid anymore.  She closed her eyes and listened to the waves crash on the beach behind her.  Maybe this can be something._

***

Daenerys’ eyes fluttered open.  Her head ached.  Her eyes flitted around the hospital room.  She moved her head, which just made it hurt worse.  Her memories came back to her in a rush.  She remembered everything.  Missandei falling, gunshots, the pain of being shot, Trystane knocking her down, Jon’s scream.

A nurse came in the room and saw that she was awake.  “I’ll get the doctor, Madam President,” the nurse said.

“Wait,” Daenerys rasped.  “Where are my children?  Nym and Egg.  I need them.  And Trystane.  Is he okay?”

“Mr. Martell is fine,” the nurse reassured her.  “I’ll send for him and the doctor.  Try to relax.”

She waited, shutting her eyes against the pain.  The doctor was not long in coming.  “Good afternoon, Madam President,” Dr. Luwin said.  “I see you’re awake.  How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been shot,” Daenerys replied.  “My head hurts.”

“I’ll get you something for the pain,” he said.

“No, I don’t want to go back to sleep,” she objected.  “I want to see my children.  Are they here?”

“It won’t make you go to sleep, but you should rest,” he said.  “A short visit, okay?”

“Okay,” Daenerys said weakly.  He adjusted her IV and a nurse brought her ice chips.

A few minutes later, Nym hesitantly entered the room, followed by Egg and Trystane.  Nym approached her, but Egg stayed a few feet away near his father.  He looked frightened and his eyes were red from crying.  “Be gentle with your mom, Nym,” Trystane said.

“Mom,” Nym said.  “Dad said that you got hurt and you were sleeping.  We were waiting so long for you to wake up.  Are you better now?”

“Much better now that you’re here, _zaldrītsos,”_ Daenerys said.  She held out a hand to Nym, and her little girl carefully hugged her.  Still, she winced a little.

“What happened to you, mom?” Egg asked.

Daenerys hesitated.  If they didn’t know yet, it was only a matter of time before they learned.  They were smart kids and there was no keeping them away from televisions or people talking around them forever.  It would be better if they heard about it from her.

“Someone shot me,” Daenerys said.  “But your dad saved me.  I’ll be okay.  Come over, Egg.  Can I have a hug?”  Egg walked over to her and gently gave her a hug.

“I love you, mom,” Egg said.  He started to cry again.

“I love you too, sweetling,” she said.  “Please don’t cry.  Everything is going to be okay.  You’ll see.”

“Kids, your mom needs to rest, okay?” Trystane said.  “I’m going to have Gilly and Barristan take you home.”

“Are you coming, Dad?” Egg asked.

“Not yet,” he replied.  “I’m going to stay here with your mom.”  Trystane escorted the children back to the waiting room and returned a few minutes later.  He sat in chair next to her bed and looked at her without saying anything.  She grabbed his hand, surprising him.

“Thank you, Trystane,” she said.  He looked at her and smiled weakly.  She squeezed his hand.  “Why’d you do that?  Why did you risk your life for me?”

He shook his head.  She waited for a clever response which didn’t come.  He looked tongue-tied, something she had rarely seen.  After a while, he finally spoke.  “I didn’t think about it.  Everything happened so fast.”

“That’s not an answer,” Daenerys objected. 

He looked down at his hand in hers.  “I don’t want to upset you.”

“It couldn’t be worse than being shot,” she quipped.

He bit his lip and looked up at her.  He took a shaky breath.  “I love you, Daenerys.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, lowering his eyes to stare at the floor.

They both sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes.  Eventually, Daenerys took a deep breath and spoke.  “How is Missandei?  And there was a guard who fell.  I think it was Osmund.  Are they alright?”

“Missandei had to have surgery, but she’s in recovery now and the doctors say she will be okay,” Trystane said quietly.  “Osmund died at the scene.”

“Oh,” she said.  A tear formed in her eye.  She let go of Trystane’s hand and wiped it away.  “Was anyone else hurt?”

Trystane closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped.  He hesitated before answering.  “No.”  He sat up and blew out a sharp breath and looked at her.  “But I need to tell you something.  Jon should be here.  He’s at the Red Keep giving a press conference.  I’ll call him over here.”

“Jon’s giving a press conference at the Red Keep?” Daenerys asked incredulously.

Trystane smirked and laughed mirthlessly.  “See for yourself if you don’t believe me.”  He took the remote control off the shelf and turned on the TV that hung on the wall opposite of the bed.  The sound was muted, but to her astonishment, there Jon was in the Red Keep press briefing room.  Even from several feet away from the small TV, she could see the dark rings around his eyes.

“Wow, he looks like hammered shit,” Trystane said, laughing.  “I think he could use some of that fancy concealer of yours.  La Mer, right?”

Daenerys smiled.  “Yeah.  You don’t look any better, though.  Something about pots and kettles comes to mind.”

“Right back at you, Madam President,” he said.  “Rest awhile, hmm?”

***

Trystane hadn’t explained why he wanted Jon back at the hospital, but Jon hadn’t needed an explanation.  He was anxious to see Daenerys now that she was out of sedation.  He saw Trystane in the waiting room.

“Daenerys is resting,” Trystane said.  “The nurse will come get us when she wakes.”

Jon sat down across from Trystane and they waited.  Trystane wouldn’t meet his eyes and stayed quiet.  After some time, a nurse came out.

“You can go in now,” the nurse said.  They both stood and followed the nurse to Daenerys’ room.

She looked pale and had dark bruises around her eyes.  Jon rushed to her bedside and pulled a nearby chair over to sit next to her.

“You’re back,” Daenerys said.  She smiled weakly and took a deep breath.  “You came back to me.”  Jon felt a rush of guilt that he hadn’t been by Daenerys’ side the night before.  _I should have been by her side all along._

“I’m so sorry, Dany,” Jon said.  He clasped her hand.  “I’ll never leave you again, I swear.”

“I saw you on TV,” she said.  “You look even worse in person.”

He laughed and wiped a tear away from his eye with his thumb.

He kissed her hand and looked at her intently.  “I’ll never leave you again,” he repeated.

Trystane cleared his throat and Jon and Daenerys both looked over at him.  Jon had nearly forgotten that Trystane was there.  He was standing near the window with his arms crossed.  Jon was surprised to see that he didn’t look angry.  Trystane just looked tired and sad.

He opened his mouth to speak but closed it when there was a sharp knock at the door.  Jon’s fingers twitched at the sound of the knock, but he didn’t let go.  Dr. Maegyr entered the room a second later.

“Madam President, Mr. Martell,” she said.  She saw Jon and looked at Daenerys.  “I can come back when you’re done visiting.”

“That’s okay, doctor,” Daenerys reassured her.  “Jon is my communications manager.  Whatever you have to say, I would just have to tell him after anyway.”  The doctor looked reluctant, so Daenerys clarified.  “And a friend, as well.  Really, it’s fine.”

***

Robb had left the Bar Emmon Grand around five a.m.  He had told the agent in charge of the federal police to call him if there were any developments in the investigation.  Rhaenys had wanted to go to the hospital to see her aunt, but Trystane had asked everyone to wait until Daenerys was out of surgery to come by.  She and her father had reluctantly agreed.  Rhaegar arrived from Dragonstone at 2:30 a.m. and had picked Rhaenys up from the hotel.  Sansa and Willas had left shortly after that.  They were all exhausted.

When the sun was beginning to rise, Robb finally fell asleep.  A few hours later, he was awakened by his phone ringing. 

“Robb Stark?” the caller said.

“Yeah,” Robb replied hoarsely.

“This is Agent Greenhands.  Commander Rivers said to call you with an update on the investigation,” he said.

Robb perked up instantly.  He kicked off his blankets and sat up.

“Yes?”

“A man was spotted leaving the office building across the street from the Bar Emmon Grand about five minutes after the shooting,” Greenhands said.  “He’s not considered a suspect at this point, but he is a person of interest and is wanted for questioning.  The eyewitness reported that he is a large man, about six-foot-five, and was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up.  The witness didn’t see much of his face, but she said he may have facial scarring.  He was carrying a large plastic suitcase.”

“I see,” Robb said.  His mind spun.  _Surely not,_ he thought. _It’s a coincidence._ “This is an important development.  I’ll pass it along to Communications Director Snow immediately.  We want everyone in the capital looking for this man.  Is that all?”

“Yes,” Greenhands said.  “I’ll call you when we know more.”

***

Dr. Maegyr looked at Trystane and cleared her throat.  “Mr. Martell, have you already talked to the president about what we discussed earlier?”

Trystane looked down and answered uncomfortably.  “No, not yet.  I was about to, but it’s fine, you can go ahead.”

“I see,” she said.  “Madam President, my name is Dr. Maegyr.  I told your husband about this earlier, but I wanted to make sure you had any questions answered that you may have.  The ER doctors asked me to come in after they reviewed your initial diagnostic scans.”

“Dr. Luwin was in here earlier,” Daenerys said.  “What is your specialty, exactly?”

“I’m a perinatologist,” Dr. Maegyr said.  Daenerys drew in a shocked breath.  Jon merely looked confused.  Trystane looked at the floor and picked at his fingernails.

“That’s impossible,” Daenerys breathed.  “I can’t.  I can’t get pregnant.  I’m infertile.  I can’t have children, I mean, I had to have IVF…  Dr. Dayne said…” she trailed off.

“I’m sorry Madam President,” Dr. Maegyr said.  “I didn’t have access to your prior medical records, but our ultrasound confirmed that you were nine weeks pregnant.”

“Was?” Daenerys asked.  Jon squeezed her hand and she looked away from the doctor to see his face was twisted as if he was in physical pain.  She squeezed back.

“I’m very sorry,” she said.  “When I was called in, the baby was in distress.  You were given progesterone, but it was imperative that you go into surgery immediately.  Once the surgery was complete, I examined you again.  I couldn’t detect a heartbeat.  There’s very little that can be done this early in a pregnancy in the case of a threatened miscarriage.  You had lost too much blood.  We weren’t able to stop it.”

Daenerys let out a sob.  She looked at the ceiling and tears streamed from her eyes.  Her chest ached, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.  She struggled to speak.  “Nine weeks?” she asked raggedly.  “You’re sure?”

“Yes, Madam President,” Dr. Maegyr replied.

Daenerys wiped her eyes in a futile effort to clear the tears away as they continued to fall.  “Can I see?  The sonogram, I mean.”

Dr. Maegyr removed a printed sonogram photo from the chart that she carried and handed it to Daenerys.  Daenerys carefully wiped her fingers on her hospital gown before taking it.  She let go of Jon’s hand to hold the photo with both hands, and delicately ran a shaking finger over the tiny form in the middle of the photo.

“Cherry,” she said quietly, as if she were reciting something she’d read.  “At nine weeks, your baby is the size of a cherry.”  The hand holding the photo dropped and she sobbed again.  She gasped for breath and handed the photo to Jon.  He stared at the photo for a long moment before he let the hand holding it drop to his side.  Then he bent over and buried his face in his other hand.  The photo fluttered to the floor.

“I can give you some privacy if you’d like, Madam President,” the doctor said.  Daenerys looked over at her and saw that she looked very uncomfortable.  She couldn’t bring herself to care.

Daenerys took a deep breath.  “I have a question, actually.  The fertility specialist that I saw in Dorne ten years ago diagnosed me as infertile.  He said that I had infertility of unknown cause and that it would impossible for me to become pregnant naturally.  He made it clear that the condition was permanent.  So, how did this happen?”  She put a hand on Jon’s shoulder comfortingly.  His body was still shaking with silent sobs.

Dr. Maegyr folded the chart and set it aside.  “Fertility medicine is not my specialty per se, but from what I do know, I would say it is not customary to make such an absolute claim if the cause is unknown.  Did you have any outward symptoms such as irregular or missed periods?”

“No,” Daenerys said.

“It’s possible that you were misdiagnosed,” Dr. Maegyr offered.  “Generally, you would have a lower probability of pregnancy at 32 than at 22, even without a fertility problem.  Has something changed since that time?”

There was steel in Daenerys’ voice now and her words were clipped.  She glanced at Trystane.  “Yes.  Something changed.”  She clenched her teeth for a moment before speaking again.  When she did, it was with effort.  “Those are all the questions I have for now, Dr. Maegyr.  I thank you kindly for your advice and discretion.”

Dr. Maegyr nodded and grabbed her chart.  She left the room, closing the door behind her.

Daenerys winced as she sat up as straight as she was able to in the hospital bed.  She fixed Trystane with an icy glare.  “It was you, wasn’t it?  It was never me, it was you.  And you knew.  All this time.  You did, didn’t you?”

Trystane shoved his hands in his pockets and hung his head.  He didn’t respond. 

“Answer me, gods damn you!” Daenerys yelled.

Trystane looked around the room as if looking for a way to escape and finding none.  “Daenerys, I can explain.”

Jon sat up and looked at Trystane incredulously.  His eyes were red and his face wet from crying.  The dark circles around his eyes were even darker than they had been.

Daenerys balled her hands into fists.  “You knew!”

“I didn’t, not at first,” Trystane said quickly.  “Gerold told you what he did on his own.  I didn’t ask him to or even know about it at the time.  He didn’t tell me until he called me to tell me about the lab’s mistake, once you were already pregnant.  He thought he’d done me some great favor.”

“Then you came to Dragonstone, and you said nothing,” Daenerys said.  “You knew then, and you didn’t tell me.  You begged for my forgiveness while lying to my face!”

“I’m sorry,” Trystane said, his voice pleading.  “I was afraid.  I thought if I told you, you wouldn’t believe I had just found out.  I thought if you knew the truth, you would never come home.  I was desperate.  I wanted to tell you.”

“But you didn’t!” Daenerys shouted.  “All these years, you let me believe I was worthless!  Ten years!  All the while, it was you!  You’re the one with the problem.  Your arrogance and your fucking cowardice and your stupid vanity!  You let me think I was damaged and useless!  You let me think that I was _nothing!”_

“Daenerys, please listen,” Trystane pleaded.  He tried to step closer to her but stopped when he saw the murderous glare in her eyes.

“No, I will not listen!” Daenerys bellowed.  “I’ve heard enough of your lies.  When you came to Dragonstone and said you loved me, that was just another lie, just like today, when you said it again.  You don’t love me, you don’t love anyone.  It was just a pathetic attempt at manipulating me.  You knew you were about to get caught.”

“I wasn’t lying, Daenerys,” Trystane said, his voice shaking.  “I do love you, I always have.  I’m sorry.”

“Get out,” she hissed.  “Get the fuck out!  I don’t ever want to see your lying face again.  Go back to the Red Keep, pack your shit, and go back to Dorne.”

“Daenerys,” he pleaded.  “The children…”

Daenerys’ face was red with fury.  “They don’t need a lying sack of shit like you and neither do I.  Leave.  Now.”

He tried to step towards her again.

“Get out!  Get the fuck out!  Jon, get him out of my sight, please.”

Jon sucked in a deep breath and stood up.  He walked over to the door and opened it.  “Trystane,” he sighed, tilting his head at the door.  Trystane swallowed and walked out the door.  Jon walked out after Trystane and moved the door until it was only open a crack.

“I’ll talk to her,” Jon said quietly.  “Just go home.  Your kids need you.  She’s angry and hurt.  I can fix this.”

“Some things can’t be fixed,” Trystane said dully.  “Even if you could, isn’t this what you want?”

“No,” Jon said.  He slumped backwards to lean against the wall, his head hitting it with a thump.  “This isn’t your fault.  It’s mine.”  He closed his eyes and blew out a breath sharply.  “All of this is my fault.”  He closed his eyes tightly.

“It’s really not,” Trystane said tiredly.  “When you have a chance to think about it clearly, you’ll see that.  It’s a reckoning and it’s been a long time in coming.  You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”  He sighed and looked around the dreary hospital hallway.  “Stay here and take care of Daenerys.  Forget about the press.  I’ll have someone deal with them.”

“Yeah,” Jon said weakly.  “Satin can.  Or whomever.  I don’t care anymore.”

“You’ll take care of her?” Trystane asked.

Jon met Trystane’s eyes and nodded.  “I will.”  Trystane disappeared down the hallway.  Jon slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.  He drew his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and buried his head.  He sobbed loudly, not caring anymore who heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	13. But Gravity Always Wins And It Wears Him Out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei gets a history lesson. Robb and Sandor investigate. Jon thinks about gravity and recalls an important event in his past. Shae takes a road trip. Satin's job description gets expanded. Jon uncovers the source of a leak and presents a plan to Trystane. Lyanna makes soup. Tyrion and Shae share a delightful meal. The president's advisers disagree on how to handle things when rebels decide to not let a crisis go to waste. Daenerys receives a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees." Check out the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).

Chapter 13

“But Gravity Always Wins And It Wears Him Out.”

 

“Jon Snow is a threat,” Cersei said.  The privacy screen separating the Vice President and his sister from their driver had been raised, but Jaime knew that his driver could be trusted.  His driver was returning them to Jaime’s home after an unpleasant night in the bunker.  _Query whether Tyrion would have ordered us to go there had Snow not interfered_ , he thought.  He had said it didn’t matter to him, and truly it did not.  He had doubted Cersei’s suggestion from the beginning, but he didn’t see a reason not to go along.  Now that it was clear that President Targaryen would survive, he knew that he would soon return to being irrelevant.  _Fine_.

“You don’t need to worry about Snow, sweet sister,” Jaime said.  That wasn’t true, strictly speaking, but he felt it was best to keep her calm.

“What do you have on him?” Cersei asked, her lips turning into a vicious smile.

“Something,” Jaime replied.

“Tell me what it is,” she insisted.

“I’m not going to tell you, because you would use it,” he said patiently.  “That would be inadvisable.”

“Why?” she bit out.

“Because it would the textbook definition of taking a knife to a gunfight,” he explained.  “Even if I had proof, which I don’t, it doesn’t come close to what he has.  He would be hounded by reporters for a few days.  You, I, our children, and probably our whole fucking house would be obliterated.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” she said.  “The president would never allow it.” _Does she think that he would ask Daenerys for permission first?  Like a child asking for a cookie?_

“Then why did you back down before?” he asked.

Cersei seethed but didn’t answer, because there was no answer.  Jaime silently lamented that his sister rarely thought more than one move ahead.  The debacle with Robert Baratheon being a case in point.  _So what if Robert fathered another bastard?  Cersei birthed three._

“Let me explain it like this,” Jaime said, trying to keep the condescension out of his tone and not quite succeeding.  “Do you remember your grade school lessons about Aegon the Conqueror?”

“Yes,” she said, bored.  “He conquered Westeros with his sisters and their dragons.”

“But do you remember why?”

“No.  Who cares?”

“When the last Storm King Argilac Durrandon proposed a match between his daughter and Aegon, Aegon refused, as he already had two wives.  He offered his bastard half-brother Orys Baratheon as her husband instead.  Argilac the Arrogant didn’t like this counter-offer and cut off the hands of Aegon’s envoy and sent them back to Dragonstone by way of reply.  In response, Aegon and sisters took their dragons to the mainland, killed Argilac the Arrogant, melted down Harrenhal, laid waste to the combined armies of the Reach and the Westerlands on the Field of Fire, and brought the King in the North to his knees based on nothing but reputation.”

“Are you getting close to the point of this boring history lesson?” Cersei asked contemptuously.  “You think some bastard fixer from the northern wastelands is the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror?”

“My point is that all _I_ have is a knife to cut off an envoy’s hands, and Jon Snow is over there, sitting on top of Balerion the Black Dread, politely not setting us on fire and magnanimously not eradicating our name from existence.  If provoked, I expect he would respond in a way very much like Aegon I Targaryen did.  I know that you could never understand that, and that’s why I’m not handing you the knife.”

Cersei merely glared at him and remained silent for the rest of the ride.

***

It had been a long night for everyone, so even though it was late morning, Robb was one of the first in the office.  He saw a light on in Sandor’s office and headed straight there.  Ever a man of few words, Sandor sat back in his chair calmly and waited for Robb to speak.  He was dressed in the type of attire that he normally wore to the office, a gray button-down shirt and black dress pants.  There was no black hoodie in sight, but Robb instantly recognized the black plastic suitcase from Agent Greenhands’ description.  It sat innocently on Sandor’s polished ironwood desk.

“Do I even want to know what’s in that case?” Robb asked.

“At least you didn’t lead off with asking if I shot the president,” Sandor grunted.  “That’s something, I suppose.”  He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pair of leather gloves and donned them.  Robb grimaced as Sandor opened the case, hoping against hope that it did not contain what Robb expected it did.

Sandor pulled out pieces from the case one by one and methodically assembled what Robb came to recognize as a remote-controlled sniper rifle.  Stunned into silence, he waited for Sandor to explain.

“I received a call on my personal cell from a number that I later traced to a burner phone purchased two blocks from here two days ago from a man who said he knew the whereabouts of my brother.  He said that if I wanted the information, I must show up at the office building located at 2211 Rosby Point Drive at 9:30 p.m. and wait for another call.  At 10:42, the man called back and said to come to suite 550 at once.  The moment I knocked on the suite door, I heard the gunfire begin.  I kicked in the door, disabled the rifle, dismantled it, and collected the cartridges.  Then I left the office building as quickly as I could and tried to avoid being seen by anyone.”

“Why take the gun?”  Robb couldn’t take his eyes off the weapon.

“Every gun tells a story.  Whoever did this had in mind to set me up.  We can use this to try and find the shooter and whoever hired him.  No doubt they’ve left a trail of piss to lead the federal police to me.  We need to find the shooter ourselves before they get to the end of the trail.”

Robb let out a shaky breath.  “I had thought that perhaps this was a hit ordered by the Meereenese or perhaps the Wise Masters of Yunkai.  Retaliation against the president for the drone strikes in Slaver’s Bay or expelling the Yunkish ambassador.  Maybe even wildling extremists.  They’ve been quiet lately.  President Targaryen has reformed immigration, but who can say with terrorists?  Maybe it’s not enough?  But if the assassin is trying to set you up, involving JSA in this way, it’s political.  What better way to start political chaos than to create suspicion against one of the president’s closest allies and advisors?  Who do you think?  Boltons?  Baelish?”

“I’m shit at politics,” Sandor said.  “The rest of you are better with that crap than I am.  But your theory could work.  All I know is that with this weapon, used in this fashion, we aren’t dealing with a lone gunman.  Someone hired this fuck.  They only managed to fuck up when choosing their sniper.  He has shit for aim.  The president should be dead.”

“She almost did die,” Robb said.  “If Martell hadn’t knocked her down, she would be dead.”

“My point stands,” Sandor said.  “If it _had_ been me, the first bullet would have gone right between her eyes and Martell would have been soaked with her blood before he even knew what was happening.  Not that it will make a difference to the federal police if they come knocking.”

Robb blanched.  “What about the gun?  Do you know anything about it?  Where it was purchased or by whom?”

“The serial number was sanded off,” Sandor said, annoyed.  “It’s a common model; there are thousands of identical ones in Westeros.  They’re commonly used by the military and law enforcement.  Not legal for a civilian to have, but nothing special.”

“What about prints?”

“I already dusted it and there are none.”

Robb tried to reach for some nugget of information that might be gleaned.  “What about the phone that called you?  Can you locate it?  Have you already got the list of the numbers it called besides yours?”

“I was just going over the list when you walked in.  The phone itself was deactivated, most likely destroyed.”  He flipped his laptop around so that Robb could see the list.  “Any of those look familiar to you?”

There were the two calls to Sandor’s phone and a dozen other calls split between two numbers.  “No.  But it shouldn’t take long to run them down.  There are only two besides your number.”

Sandor pulled the computer back around.  “I’ll get started on it.”

“What about your brother?” Robb asked carefully.  He knew that the subject of Gregor Clegane was a sensitive one.  “Do you think he’s involved?”

Sandor’s face twisted into a snarl.  “Doubt it.  He’s still in the wind.”

Robb stood up to leave Sandor to his work.  “I need to call Jon and tell him what’s going on.”

***

Jon was vaguely aware of people moving around him.  No one disturbed him or seemed to take notice of him.  He couldn’t have said how long he stayed curled up on the cold hospital floor.  He had lost any sense of time.  It could have been five minutes, or it could have been two hours.

_“This isn’t your fault, it’s mine.  All of this is my fault,”_ he had said.  _Trystane tried to argue that point, but he’s wrong.  If it hadn’t been for what I did, Daenerys would never have learned the truth.  This wouldn’t have happened.  She wouldn’t be suffering now._ Not for the first time, Jon thought about what Ned Stark would have said if he could see him now.  _He would have been so disappointed.  He would regret every time he smiled at me and called me son.  He’d turn away in disgust at the homewrecker and thief that I’ve become._ There wasn’t anything Jon wouldn’t have given to bring the only father that he’d ever known back to life, but he couldn’t help but think that since he couldn’t, at least Ned wasn’t here to see him now.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.  “Jon?” he heard Tyrion say.  His tone was alarmed, bordering on panic.  “What’s wrong?  They told me Daenerys was fine.  Did something happen?”  Jon’s head snapped up and he tried to wipe his face with hand, but there was no point.  He struggled to find the right words to answer Tyrion’s simple question.

“She’s okay,” Jon managed.  “I just saw her.”

“What happened, then?” Tyrion asked, his voice calmer.

“It’s all my fault,” Jon said, his voice coming barely above a whisper.  “I never should have done it.  I’m to blame.”

“To blame for what?” Tyrion asked.

Jon buried his face in his hands.  “You should have just let it happen that day, Tyrion,” he said.  “Gravity always wins.  There’s no fighting it.  You shouldn’t have helped me.  I’m not a good person.”  Tyrion shook his head, but Jon continued to babble quietly.  “If you hadn’t helped me, I wouldn’t be here, and…”  His voice cracked, and it took a few seconds for him to finish.  “None of this would have happened to her.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Jon,” Tyrion said.  “I don’t know what this is all about, but we’re in a crisis and we’ve already taken too much time away from it for your self-pity.  I did what I did, and I would do it again.  I need to see the president and you need to get yourself straightened out.  We need you.  Get off the floor, wash your face, and drink some water at least.  The world sucks.  Get over it.” 

Jon shook his head despondently, but he slowly extricated himself from the cold linoleum floor.  Tyrion patted him on the arm and opened the door to let himself into Daenerys’ room.

Jon walked down the hallway to find the restroom.  When he did, he splashed water on his face as Tyrion had said to do.  When he looked in the mirror, he expected to see the monster that he felt like he was, but the same familiar long face stared back at him.  _Tyrion is right.  There isn’t time for this.  I said I would take care of Daenerys, and that’s what I should be doing.  That’s what I’m going to do._   He cupped his hands to drink water from the tap, then tore a length of paper towels from the dispenser to dry his hands and face.

***

By the time Jon returned to Daenerys’ room, Tyrion had gone.  Daenerys was sitting up in bed, tablet in hand.  She set it down when she saw him.

“Come here, _ñuhys dārilaros,_ ” she said, patting the bed next to her.  He looked back at her skeptically and glanced at the door.  “Don’t worry about that.  I had Tyrion tell the nurse to leave me be for a while and to have any visitors come back later.  My guards won’t let anyone in.”  Jon’s forehead creased, and he looked at her guiltily before looking at the floor.

“I’m so sorry, Daenerys,” he said.  “This is all my fault.”

“It isn’t,” she said.  “I don’t know how you could say that.  Tyrion told me what you said, that I should set you right, and he was correct.  You didn’t do anything wrong.  You didn’t shoot me.  You didn’t lie to me for ten years.  What is it that you think you did?”

“If I hadn’t slept with another man’s wife, this wouldn’t have happened,” Jon said bluntly.

Daenerys stiffened and narrowed her eyes at him.  “That’s what you think?  You think that I belong to Trystane?  That I’m his property, with no right to choose who I love for myself?”

“No, of course not,” Jon said hastily.

She blew out a breath and her gaze softened.  “Come here.”

Worn down by guilt and fatigue, Jon obeyed.  He perched carefully on the side of the hospital bed, not wanting to jostle Daenerys or disturb her IV. She scoffed at him.  “Lie down and hold me, Jon Snow.  I won’t break.  I think if we learned anything yesterday, it’s that I’m hard to kill.  I doubt you can manage it.”

Jon did as she asked and curled against her.  She ran her fingers through his hair.  After a minute of this soothing motion, Jon finally realized how tired he was.

“I’m supposed to take care of you, but it seems like I am utterly failing and you’re taking care of me instead,” he said.

“We’ll take care of each other,” she said.  “You don’t always have to be the strongest one.  You don’t need to fix everything.  It’s okay for you to lean on me.  I’ve been down this road before.  You haven’t.”

“I didn’t realize I would feel this way,” he said.  “I’d never thought about it.  How can I be missing someone I’ll never know?”

A tear welled up in Daenerys’ eye and she pulled Jon’s palm to rest on her cheek.  “It hurts.  It really, really hurts.  But it gets easier to bear.  We’ll take care of each other.  We’ll go forward.  If we look back, we’re lost.”

Jon nodded, not having the right words to say.

“You need to rest for a while, _ñuhys dārilaros,”_ she said.  “Westeros needs its White Wolf, and so do I.”

He lifted her wrist gently to kiss her hand, then he closed his eyes.

***

Jon dreamed.

_“I’m disappointed in you, Jon,” Ned said.  “I expected better from you than this.  I thought I taught you better than this.”_

_“I’m sorry, Uncle Ned,” Jon replied, hanging his head.  Did he even have the right to call him that anymore?  The Starks would surely send him away after this._

_“What others say about you doesn’t matter,” Ned said.  “You may not have my blood, but you’re my son in every way that matters.  The circumstances of your birth don’t define your character; your actions do that.  If you let someone’s words provoke you to violence, you’re only confirming to them what they think of you.  Do you understand?”_

_“Yes, sir,” he replied, still not looking at him.  Instead, he looked down at his bruised knuckles.  He had washed most of the blood away, but some had remained and dried in the creases of his skin._

_“Look at me,” Ned said._

_He looked up.  “Yes, sir,” he repeated._

_“I convinced the headmaster not to expel you,” Ned told him.  “Any other student would have been.  Instead, you’re going to spend an hour every day cleaning the school after classes let out for the next two months.  You know how I was able to do that, to convince him?”_

_“No, sir,” Jon said, although he suspected._

_“House Stark has a long history in this country.  We’ve led the North for thousands of years, even before the Republic was established.  You may not have the name, but you are a Stark, Jon.  You represent this house.  I expect you to do so with honor.  Are you going to do that?”_

_“Yes, sir,” he said._

***

Jon woke up to the sound of a knock on the door.  He checked his watch, trying to shake the unpleasant dream away.  It had been ninety minutes since he’d fallen asleep.  Daenerys slept on, not waking at the noise.  Jon answered the door.

“I’m sorry to disturb the president, Mr. Snow, but I thought she would want to know that Governor Targaryen and Miss Targaryen are here to see her,” the presidential guard said.

“Can you let them know that the president is sleeping and see if they’ll wait?” Jon replied.

“I’m awake,” Daenerys said groggily.  “I want to see my brother and my niece.  Please send them in, Alyn.”

Alyn left to go inform Daenerys’ brother and niece that they were free to come back.  Jon ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to tame it.

“I should go,” he said.  “I’ll let you have some time to see Rhaegar and Rhaenys.  I should go back to the Red Keep, at least for a while.  I think I may have told Trystane to have Satin give a press conference.  That’s probably not advisable.”

“Who is Satin?”

“A kid who’s been working for me for a few days,” he said.  “Good guy, very sharp.  But not, uh, a press secretary.”

Daenerys laughed.  “I’m sure he’ll be fine.  Missandei says it’s easy.  If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember what to say.”

Jon smiled at Daenerys and kissed her forehead.  Tired beyond belief and not wanting to upset her, he’d buried his guilty conscience.  As he made his way through the hospital towards the exit, nodding at Rhaenys and Governor Targaryen as they passed, his guilty feelings began to bubble back to the surface.  He gritted his teeth and pushed back the pain.  He knew that these feelings were useless.  He had a crisis to manage, media to corral, and an assassin to catch.  There wasn’t any time for feelings.  Instead, he latched onto an old piece of wisdom given to him by a friend and let the rest fade into the background.

_Never forget what you are, bastard._

***

_King’s Landing, 2007_

Jon sat at a table outside the KLU law library, a scarf wrapped around his neck and a large to-go cup of coffee slowly cooling next to where he was tapping away at his laptop.  His contracts book was open on the table to the left of his laptop, marked with yellow highlighter on the important passages of the case that he was outlining.

It wasn’t a particularly cold winter by Jon’s reckoning, but the soft southerners of the capital crowded together in the warmth of the library to do their studying.  Jon preferred to be alone and he didn’t mind the cold.  It was a comforting reminder of home.  Even after four years in the south, Jon still missed the snow and winter winds of the North.  The only other students lingering outside were the smokers, furtively inhaling their nicotine fixes before scurrying back inside to warm themselves.

_If these fools were in Winterfell, their teeth would break from chattering_ , Jon thought.  _It’s likely 25 degrees colder there_.  Jon flexed his stiff fingers and consulted his book a moment before continuing typing.

Jon heard some students walking his way, talking and laughing amongst themselves.  Jon paid them no mind.  His head was in the case he was outlining.  _What kind of idiot doctor sews the hairy skin off someone’s chest to his palm and expects the patient to be happy about having a palm that grows hair?  “Expectation interest.”  Damn straight, dumbass._

He didn’t notice the student who had walked up to him until he was right next to him.  “Well if it isn’t the Stark bastard,” the boy said loudly.  Jon looked up, annoyed.  He recognized the kid as the son of some northern businessman who had always been about in Winterfell trying to curry Ned Stark’s favor and for the most part, not getting it.  Flint, maybe?  He couldn’t recall the kid’s first name.

“What in the world is Ned Stark’s by-blow doing here in the capital, I wonder,” the kid said mockingly. 

Jon’s fists tightened in anger.  He told himself to relax.  The years of training he had undergone at Ned Stark’s behest had taught him to fight, but more importantly, he had learned patience and self-control.  “Get lost, asshole,” he bit out.

The kid backed away laughing, his hands held up in mock defense.  “Easy there, bastard.  I didn’t mean to offend you.”  The kid pretended to trip on Jon’s laptop case, flung his arm out, and knocked Jon’s coffee onto his laptop.  The lid popped off when the cup hit the keyboard, warm coffee soaking into the crevices between the keys.  The other kids burst out laughing.

Jon jumped out of his chair and was a second away from grabbing the Flint boy by the throat when he heard a voice loudly call out to him.

“Jon Snow!”  Jon stopped and turned in the direction of the person who had called his name.  The Flint boy and his friends sauntered away, still laughing uproariously.  Jon saw that the person who had spoken was his contracts professor, Tyrion Lannister.

“Good afternoon, Professor Lannister,” he greeted the professor politely.  He turned his attention to his computer, trying in vain to dry it with his scarf.  A splash of coffee stained a page of his textbook.  Professor Lannister walked over to him and peered at the book.

“Hawkins v. McGee,” Lannister mused.  “A landmark case.  Well, it’s good to see that my students are keeping up with their studying.”

Jon nodded, not having anything to say.  The professor eyed his ruined laptop and sighed.  “It wouldn’t have been worth it, Jon.  You’re a bright young man.  I’d hate it if you were expelled over the idiotic actions of some foolish undergrads.”

Jon pursed his lips.  “Thank you,” he muttered, not meeting his professor’s eyes.

“Have you ever heard the story of the strange childhood of King Aegon VI Targaryen?” Lannister asked.

“The Last Hero, the White Wolf, the Prince That Was Promised?” Jon said.  “I studied medieval Westerosi history at the Citadel, but I don’t recall anything about King Aegon’s childhood, no.”

“It’s not documented in many history books, as fascinating as the tale is,” Lannister said.  “Many historians of the period thought it unseemly to record.  King Aegon was born at the tail end of a rebellion, that for about twenty years, deposed House Targaryen as the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms.  The usurper, King Robert I Baratheon, would have put to death any Targaryen he could find to end their claim to the throne and solidify his own power.  Even an infant.  In fact, he did exactly that to Aegon’s two young half-siblings.”

“How did Aegon survive?” Jon asked with interest.

“His uncle, Lord Stark of Winterfell, hid him in his own castle and claimed him as his illegitimate son.  Aegon was the trueborn son of Lord Stark’s sister, who died in childbirth, and the crown prince, who died in battle.  The two had married in secret.  Obviously, Lord Stark couldn’t hide a child with such an iconic Valyrian name, so he renamed the boy.  Do you know what his name was?”

“No,” Jon said.

“His name was Jon Snow,” Lannister said with a lopsided grin.  “Snow used to be the name assigned to highborn Northern bastards.  But you probably knew that already.”  Jon nodded, and Tyrion continued with his story.  “Jon didn’t even know who he was until he was about twenty years old.  Around the time that he learned, he and his Queen Daenerys saved Westeros from the Long Night, restored House Targaryen to power, and launched the thousand-year Targaryen Dynasty of the Dawn, which ended peacefully when King Eddard III Targaryen abdicated his throne and established the Republic of Westeros.”

This last part, Jon knew of course.  “And that’s why we have a fifty-foot statue of him here in the capital.  Aegon VI wasn’t a bastard.  Not in truth.  I am.  I’m no hidden prince.  I’m not even a Stark,” Jon added.

“True,” Lannister agreed.  “But that Jon Snow would have blanched at such an honor.  He never forgot his life as the Bastard of Winterfell.  Only the history books refer to him as Aegon.  He was called Jon by all who knew him.  He eschewed royal finery and wore simple clothing.  He wouldn’t wear a crown unless his wife forced him to, and then on only the most important formal occasions.  The only thing of value he was willing to adorn himself with was the Valyrian steel sword that he used to slay the Night King.”

“I didn’t know that about him,” Jon admitted.

“Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.”

“What do you know about being a bastard?” Jon asked angrily.

“All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes,” Lannister responded sadly.  After a moment, he continued.  “I saw what happened.  The Crownlands province has a quite strict anti-bullying statute for all its public schools, including KLU.  Mr. Flint is going to be expelled.  You won’t be.”

Jon took a deep breath.  “Thank you, Professor Lannister.”

“See you in class, Snow.”

***

_King’s Landing, 2018 AC_

“There’s already a thousand reporters covering the shooting, Daeron,” Shae argued.  “I’m the only one covering this.  If it pans out, it’ll be just as big of a story.”

“Your mysterious story that you won’t tell me anything about?” Daeron replied.

“Yes,” Shae said.  “And it’s better for you that I don’t give you too many details.  You just need to trust me.  Have I ever led you astray before?”

“Yes,” Daeron said.

Shae rolled her eyes.  “Don’t be difficult.  If I can get anything that other reporters can’t get on the shooting, you’ll be the first to know.  I’ll have my phone.  It’s only a single day.”

Seven and a half hours later, Shae arrived in Harrenhal.  Traffic on the CL-99 North leaving the capital had been terrible, and it was too late in the day to visit the district’s registrar of voters.  She texted Tyrion to let him know she was held up overnight for work.  He didn’t respond, which Shae had expected.  He would be too distracted to probe too much into what had taken Shae out of town.

It didn’t have glamour of the capital, but the hotel she had chosen at least had a decent breakfast.  She didn’t want to waste time, so she checked out, and grabbed a coffee and bagel sandwich to go.  She drove her Mercedes coupe to the Harrenhal Registrar of Voters just as they were opening for the day.  The glare from the early morning sun glinted off her Prada sunglasses.

The Registrar of Voters, at first, seemed promising.  “I’ll show you the storage unit where we keep the machines.  What’d you say this was about?” the assistant registrar, Coralyn, said.

“Voting technology in the digital age,” Shae said.  “You would think my editor would want me covering the shooting, but no.  ‘Can’t have any appearance of impropriety.’  Hand’s wife and all.  So ridiculous.  That’s how I get sent to cover a fluff piece.  I appreciate your help.”  Shae had considered giving the woman a fake name, but decided against it, thinking that it was too much of a risk that the woman may have seen her photographed with Tyrion at an event.  Gossip rags in particular loved to run photos of the 5’4” Shae Lannister alongside the 4’5” Tyrion Lannister.  Shae imagined that if she had a dull job working a district registrar of voters, she might spend a great deal of time reading the gossip papers as well.

“It’s no trouble,” Coralyn replied.

Shae inspected the first machine.  She checked where the memory card was supposed to be and found it empty.  “Where’s the memory card?”

“Oh, the cards were removed,” Coralyn said.  “I’m not sure by whom.”

Shae checked each of the 249 machines thoroughly.  No cards were stored in any of them.  “There are supposed to be 250 machines.  There are only 249 here.”

“These are all the ones we have,” Coralyn said.

Shae groaned in frustration.

“Except the one at the high school,” Coralyn said.

“High school?” Shae asked.

“Yes, they keep one there on display to commemorate our transition to electronic voting,” Coralyn explained proudly.  “We were one of the first districts in Westeros to adopt these machines.”

“Thank you so much for your help,” Shae said.  “Where is the high school?”

Twenty minutes later, Shae arrived at the school.  She walked down the hall among the students, seeking out the machine.  After passing a display of soccer trophies, she found the voting machine display under a banner that proclaimed “Harrenhal Enters the Digital Age – Your Vote Matters.”

The case was locked.  Shae looked around surreptitiously, pulled a bobby pin from her hair, and quickly picked the lock.  She opened the access panel and pressed the eject button.  The card popped into her hand.  She closed the case and scurried out of the school.

She drove to a nearby coffee shop and booted up her laptop.  The card fit the SD port on the computer, but it took Shae an hour of searching to find a program that could run the voting software.  Finally, she downloaded a Skytech emulator and accessed the card data.

_Choose one for President of the Republic of Westeros:_

  * _Daenerys Targaryen/Jaime Lannister_
  * _Stannis Baratheon/Jon Arryn_



She clicked to select Baratheon.  She submitted the ballot, then repeated the process four more times, choosing Baratheon each time.  Then she accessed the administrator functions. 

_Admin menu:_

  * _Submit final count_
  * _View final count_
  * _Settings_



Shae clicked on “View final count.”

_Final count:_

  * _Daenerys Targaryen/Jaime Lannister – 3 votes_
  * _Stannis Baratheon/Jon Arryn – 2 votes_



Shae’s eyes went wide, and she nearly knocked over her coffee.  “Son of a bitch!”

***

Jon arrived at the Red Keep press briefing room just in time to see Satin take his place behind the podium.  He thought for a moment about stopping him and taking over, which Satin would have appreciated – the young man was probably terrified.  _But he doesn’t look it.  He’s been working the last two hours, and I’ve been napping.  At least he’s prepped.  Let’s see how this goes._

Jon stayed out of sight, but near enough that he could intervene if shit went off the rails.  _Maintain eye contact.  Stand up straight.  Don’t raise your voice, but speak with authority.  And whatever you do, don’t show fear._ He couldn’t telegraph these thoughts to Satin, so he hoped for the best.

“Good afternoon,” Satin began, his voice solemn and even.  “Communications Director Snow is at KLU Medical Center meeting with President Targaryen, so I will be updating you until his return.  My name is Satin Flowers.  I’m going to give you the most recent update, then I will take your questions.”

“President Targaryen is recovering from surgery and is awake and lucid.  Her doctors expect that she will make a full recovery and will be sufficiently healed to return to the Red Keep in ten to fourteen days.  Since awaking, she has met with her advisors Mr. Lannister and Mr. Snow, as well as her husband and children.  Press Secretary Missandei Naath is also expected to recover fully and will likely be discharged within two weeks.”

Jon was pleased to see that none of the reporters present attempted to interrupt Satin.  He saw that Satin looked down briefly on occasion to glance at his notes, but otherwise kept his eyes on the reporters.

“This was announced earlier, but bears repeating, that federal police are looking for a man who is a person of interest in the shooting at the Bar Emmon Grand.  He is approximately 6’5”, has facial scarring, and was last seen wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and carrying a large black plastic briefcase.”

_Gods dammit Sandor.  What the fuck were you thinking?_ Jon hadn’t had the chance to go back to office to meet with Robb and Sandor, but they had called him to fill him in over a secure phone line.  _Hopefully secure enough._

“Next, although arrangements had been made for suspension of the stock exchange on Monday, that will not be necessary.  As President Targaryen is recovering well, trading will continue as usual tomorrow morning.”

“The threat level remains elevated while the persons responsible for the attack on the president remain at large.  National security, the federal police, and the Night’s Watch have all reported that they do not have any indications of further attacks.”

_Which is to say that they don’t know shit._ Jon already knew that, but hearing it now served to frustrate him all over again.

“I’ll take your questions,” Satin said.  The reporters all furiously clamored to be called upon.  Satin pointed to a KL Herald reporter in the second row.  “Mycah.”

Jon was surprised.  _How does he know their names?_

The reporter stood to ask his question.  “Is the man in the black hoodie considered a suspect in the shooting?”

“Not at this time.  He is wanted for questioning.  Next question, Denys.”  He pointed to a reporter from the Lannisport Gazette.

“Following the shooting, Vice President Lannister was briefly at the Red Keep.  Can you say why he was here?”

“The Vice President was counseled by his advisors in the aftermath of the shooting to proceed to the Red Keep.  Hand to the President Tyrion Lannister redirected him to an undisclosed location for security purposes.”

“So, he was advised erroneously to come to the Red Keep?”

“That’s correct,” Satin said.  “Next, Meredyth.”

“The man in the black hoodie was carrying a case that could have contained the rifle used to shoot the president.  Is he believed to be the shooter?”

“Asked and answered.  Next, Ned.”

Ned Dayne stood.  “If the security apparatuses do not believe there is an indication of further attacks, why is the threat level elevated?”

“It’s a precautionary measure.  There is no certainty that there will not be another attack, only a lack of indications that one will occur.  Next, Valena.”

Valena Toland, of the Sunspear Inquirer, stood.  “What is the Red Keep’s response to rumors that the president and Mr. Martell quarreled after she awoke from surgery and that he was sent away from KLU Medical Center on the president’s orders?”

_Others take me, how the fuck does she know about that?_   Jon was grateful Satin was giving this press conference now.  Jon tried to avoid lying to the press; it was why he had such a good rapport with them.  Satin was unlikely to know the answer, so he wouldn’t have to lie.

“This is the first time I’m hearing such rumors, so I can’t comment on them at this time.  I’ll have to take your question and get back to you later.”

“But Mr. Martell is here at the Red Keep, not at KLU?”

“That’s correct.”

Valena insisted further.  “Does that mean that he is here because the president ordered it?”

“Asked and answered.  Next, Erryk.”

Satin took questions for another twenty minutes, blowing through each one nearly to the point of being curt.  When the reporters started repeating themselves, he ended the press conference with a quick “thank you, that’ll be all for now,” and ducked out of the briefing room.

Jon met him in the press secretary’s office.  “Nice job out there.  You handled them well.”

Satin looked at him murderously.  “I thought I was going to shit myself and you were here the whole time!”

Jon chuckled.  “Relax.  I arrived just as you were starting.  I couldn’t interrupt you.  It would make us look disorganized, as if I don’t have control of what’s happening here.  Besides, you did better than I could have.  You were prepped.  I just got here.”

Satin was still seething.  “A little heads-up would have been nice.  Instead, the _president’s husband_ basically pushed me out there and said, ‘you’re the guy.’  He said he had no idea when you would be back.  He also didn’t say anything about having a fight with the president.  What was that about?”

“No comment,” Jon said.  Satin glared at him angrily.

Jon sighed.  “I’m sorry.  It’s better if you don’t know.  I can give you a raise.  You deserve one.  Would that make up for it?”

“It’s a start,” Satin said tiredly.  He shook his head, but Jon could see his anger had started to abate.

Jon raised an eyebrow at him.  “How did you know everyone’s names?”

“I watched the press briefings that you did,” he said simply.  “I’m good with faces.”

“Nice work, really impressive,” Jon said.  “I’m sure your next one will be even better.”

“Next?” Satin asked, paling.

“You’re a natural,” Jon said, clapping his hand on Satin’s shoulder.  He left Satin in the press secretary’s office and went to find Trystane.  The closer he got to Trystane’s office, the more suspicious he got.

_There are three people who know what happened at the hospital.  I didn’t see anyone in the hallway.  The presidential guards would not have said anything, nor would they have let anyone come near who wasn’t a doctor or nurse.  A doctor or nurse wouldn’t have talked, either.  It’s too much of a risk.  But there weren’t any around._

_I didn’t leak it.  There’s no way Daenerys leaked it.  That leaves one person._

Tansy greeted him politely and buzzed Trystane.  “Mr. Snow is here to see you,” she said.  Jon wondered idly, not for the first time, what in hells the girl did all day.  _Busy day for her today.  She was probably the one tasked with leaking to the Inquirer, and now she has a visitor to deal with._

“Mr. Martell will see you now,” she said.  Jon thanked her and opened the door.

“Long time, no see,” Trystane said sardonically.

“How did the Sunspear Inquirer find out about your disagreement with Daenerys?” Jon asked him with no preamble.

“I leaked it,” Trystane replied.  He leaned back in his chair, his tone was easy and his manner casual.  The vulnerability and remorse from three hours before had dissipated like morning fog over the Blackwater Rush on a summer day.

“Why?” Jon asked, his voice heated.  “Are you really that vindictive?  What the fuck is your problem?”

Trystane rolled his eyes.  “If you were able to fish your head out of your ass, you would have done it yourself.  It’s the obvious play and has no downside for anyone.”

“I disagree,” Jon said belligerently.  “I know why you did it.  I don’t have my head up my ass, nor am I sucking my own cock.  I just think that you’re wrong.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” Trystane said, and chuckled.  “Anyway, you won’t have to suck your own cock for much longer.  I’m sure my wife will oblige you once she’s back on her feet.  Or knees.  Whatever.”

It took every last speck of Jon’s self-control not to beat the hell out of Trystane Martell at that moment.  He’d never wanted so badly to punch someone.  Trystane could obviously tell, because he assumed an apologetic stance.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I shouldn’t have said that.”  He let out a weary sigh.  “It’s been a long day.  Sit, please.”

“Explain yourself,” Jon bit out.  He ignored Trystane and remained standing.

“Three things,” Trystane said.  “I know you already know this, but I will explain if that’s what you want.  One, it’ll be old news by the time it can’t be hidden anymore, and it takes the wind out of the scandal.  Two, if it comes out now, it’ll be over-powered by the shooting coverage.  Three, if it does end up creating more heat than Daenerys wants, this gives her a few days to walk it back before I leave town.  It benefits her just as much as me.  Perhaps more since I’ll likely take the hit for it.  ‘Abandoning my injured wife at this terrible time.’  You know how this works.”

Jon sighed and dropped into a chair.  “Don’t try political strategy, Trystane.  You’ll hurt yourself.”

Trystane’s face twitched with resentment, but he otherwise ignored the insult.

“I really wish that you had run this by me,” Jon said as patiently as he could.  “The whole point of me being here is to keep all of you people on message.  I can’t do that if you go rogue and leak shit to reporters.  I have my own plan – a better one than yours – and you just fucked everything up.  I can fix it, but thanks for creating more work for me.  As if I didn’t have enough.  You might not like the idea, but we need to work together if we want to survive this.”

“Tell me this brilliant plan of yours,” Trystane said.  He pulled a bottle of scotch and a glass from a desk drawer and filled it.  He motioned at the glass.  “You want one?”

Jon shook his head.  “If Daenerys wants you gone, we have ten to fourteen days to create a plausible reason for you to be in Dorne,” he explained.  “That’s more than enough time to coax Anders Yronwood into relinquishing his senate seat.  If we did nothing, his transgressions might be swallowed by the shooting coverage, as everything else is likely to be.  But we won’t do nothing.  Shouldn’t he step aside for the good of his province?  In this time of turmoil for Westeros, don’t we need leaders that we can trust?”

“Myrcella told me that she suspected you wanted to do this,” Trystane said.  He drained half his glass in one swallow.  “I’m surprised that you’re bringing it up now with all that’s happening.”

“This can’t wait,” Jon explained.  “The window for us to move is too narrow.”

“I thought Yronwood was your client,” Trystane said.

“He’s a son of a bitch,” Jon said.  “I did what he paid me to do.  I don’t owe him shit.”

“I’m not Daenerys,” Trystane said.  “You had a hard enough time getting her elected, and people actually like her.  I’m not likeable.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jon said.  “It will be much easier.  I did a benchmark poll three days ago and 74 percent of respondents view you favorably.  That’s fifteen points over Daenerys’ most recent approval rating.  This was _before_ you became a national hero.  The bump from that won’t last, but my estimate is that it has moved your favorables up at least twenty points.  You can hang onto about half of that through the special election _if_ you do what I say.  In case you can’t do math, that’s 84 percent.  Over thirty points more than Daenerys was elected with.”

Trystane refilled his glass and eyed Jon skeptically.  “Why are you helping me?  You feeling sorry for me?  You want to win me a senate seat as a consolation prize?”

Jon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.  “What reason did Myrcella cite?”

Trystane smirked.  “She said you wanted someone you agree with politically for Yronwood’s seat.  A proper liberal, like yourself.”

“You should listen to Myrcella,” Jon said.  “She’s smarter than you.”

Trystane snorted.  “I don’t doubt that.”

“This is about politics, Trystane.  That’s my only reason.”

***

Tyrion was hunched over his desk, reading intelligence reports from agents sorting through threatening statements made online.  Hundreds of assholes, most likely harmless trolls covering their greasy faces with Cheeto dust in their mothers’ basements, had posted supportive statements of the shooting or vows to “finish the job” on various social media outlets.  Each one had to be evaluated to see if any represented a credible threat.  A stack of “well get soon” and “we stand with Westeros” well wishes from heads of state around the world had to be read and answered.  That was in addition to both his and Daenerys’ regular work, which also needed seeing to.  He was rubbing his tired eyes with both hands when the phone on his desk rang.

“Mr. Lannister, I just got a call from a Coralyn at the Registrar of Voters in Harrenhal,” his secretary said.  “She wants you to let Mrs. Lannister know that she left her sunglasses there on the counter.  She said they looked expensive, so she’s sending them here, care of the Hand’s office.”

Tyrion didn’t visibly react, but his blood turned to ice.  “Thank you, Willa.  I’ll let her know.”

Tyrion paced back and forth in his office for several minutes.  Then he picked up the phone and called his housekeeper.  “Myranda, I need you to order dinner from Silverwing for Shae and me tonight.  You’ll need to pick it up.  Get the prime rib and chocolate soufflé, that’s Shae’s favorite.  Have everything set up for seven p.m.  Also, can you stop by the Cartier boutique downtown and pick up some earrings for Shae?”

He could tell Myranda was surprised at these requests but as ever, responded like the professional that she was.  “What kind of earrings?”

“She likes diamonds,” Tyrion said.  “And white gold.  Use your judgment.  Have them charge it to my account.  And I need them gift-wrapped.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Lannister?” she asked.

“No, that will be all.  Thank you, Myranda.”

_Shae likes prime rib and diamonds, but what she really wants is a baby.  I’ll convince her._

***

“You were right,” Shae told Willas.  She started the emulator program and popped the SD card into the slot.  She ran the same test she had in the coffee shop with the same result.

“Are you sure it isn’t a malfunction?” Willas asked.  “We need to be sure.  Try voting Targaryen five times and see what happens.”  Shae did so and displayed the vote count.

_Final count:_

  * _Daenerys Targaryen/Jaime Lannister – 5 votes_
  * _Stannis Baratheon/Jon Arryn – 0 votes_



“Gods,” Willas whispered.  “They really did it.”

“That’s the next question,” Shae said.  “Who?  I was sitting with the president while she talked about Harrenhal.  If she was in on the plot, I doubt she would have brought it up.  But I noticed three people who looked uncomfortable.  Tyrion, Olenna Redwyne, and Trystane Martell.  That isn’t proof, but it’s a place to start.  We need the proof.”

“What about Jon Snow?” Willas asked.  “I can’t imagine a plan like this going forward without his knowing about it.”

“He wasn’t sitting with us, so I don’t know,” she said.  “I don’t doubt that you are right, though.  We need to investigate further.”

Shae’s phone rang, and she looked down at it.  “It’s Tyrion,” she told Willas.  “I need to get this, sorry.”

“Hello, my lion,” she answered happily.  She listened for a minute.  “That’s very sweet.  I will be home at seven.”  She hung up the phone.

Shae bit her lip and glanced at Willas.  He was looking at her questioningly.  _Two days after the attempted assassination of the president, Tyrion wants to have dinner with me at home.  At dinner time.  Even when everything is perfectly normal in the Red Keep, he doesn’t get home until eleven or later._   The wheels spun in her mind and she tried to think of all the possibilities.  When she remained quiet, Willas furrowed his brow worriedly.

_Tyrion knows,_ she thought. _Fuck._

“I think it’s probably best if you hang on to the Skytech card,” she told Willas.

***

“Jon, come in,” Lyanna said happily.  “You’re a day late, but I didn’t expect you, considering.”

Jon entered his mother’s tastefully decorated yet modest home in its quiet King’s Landing suburb as he had on many Sundays past.  Lyanna closed the door behind him and had him follow her to the kitchen where she donned a ruffled apron.

“I was just thinking about what I might make for dinner,” she said.  “What would you like, dear?”

Jon perched on a stool at the breakfast bar.  He had come here for answers and didn’t want to waste too much time, but he was hungry.  “Chicken soup.”

“Help me chop the celery and carrots,” she said.

Jon washed his hands and retrieved the vegetables from the refrigerator.  He saw his mother dicing chicken breast and opening containers of packaged broth.  _Just another way you don’t measure up to Catelyn Stark, dear mother.  Aunt Cat would never have made chicken soup from store-bought broth._ It was an irrelevant thought, and he pushed it aside.  Catelyn Stark didn’t ditch her children to be raised by a family friend, either.

Jon sliced a stalk of celery lengthwise and looked over at Lyanna.  “The shooting of the president.  Was he one of yours?”

Lyanna didn’t look up from the chicken she was cutting up.  “My boys don’t miss.”

“Tell me what you know.”

Lyanna pushed the chicken from the cutting board into a pot and shook some lemon pepper onto it before turning the heat on.  “I resent your accusation, Jon.  The purpose of WS-125 is preserving the republic.  That is its only purpose.  Assassinating – or attempting to assassinate – the President of Westeros runs in direct opposition to that mission.”

“You’ve assassinated plenty of world leaders.”

“Never our own president.” 

_Nice dodge, mom.  Maybe not a president, but other Westerosi citizens, sure._ “Stop pivoting.  What do you know?”

“There’s no chatter,” she said.  She stirred the chicken and added some cracked black pepper.  “That leads me to think that it’s a home-grown, closely-held plot.  Political, not military.  By someone I’m not watching.  Who are the president’s enemies?”

“A little less than half the country,” Jon said.  “Whoever didn’t vote for her.  What president doesn’t have enemies?”

“Not many have enemies who could even come close to setting Sandor up as a patsy,” Lyanna said.  “They failed, but only because I train my people well.”

“Sandor hasn’t been one of your people for a long time,” Jon said.  “You don’t have hard feelings about that?”

“It’s always a sad thing for one of my sons to leave the nest,” she said, pouring a box of broth into the pot.  “You most of all.”

“I’m not ‘one of your sons,’” Jon said headedly.  He attacked the carrots with more force than was truly necessary.  “I’m your actual son.  That you abandoned.”

“Are you angry about that?” Lyanna asked, her tone challenging.  “Did the Starks mistreat you?  Were you deprived of a delightful childhood accompanying me undercover?  Learning a new identity on a whim?  Did you not benefit from the stellar private school education that I paid for?  The seven years of college and law school after that?  You’re pissed that I gave you brothers and sisters to grow up with?  Reliable, stable adults to care for you?  You didn’t like being a Stark?”

“I’m not a Stark.”

“Aren’t you,” Lyanna said coldly.  It wasn’t a question.  “You’re Ned Stark reincarnated.  Don’t deny it.  Don’t judge me for giving you a good life.  It wasn’t nothing to give you up.  You think I wanted to?  I love you.  You’re my son.”

Jon handed her the bowl of chopped vegetables.  None of this was important.  He couldn’t get distracted.  “Who tried to kill President Targaryen?” he asked, his tone arctic.

Lyanna’s fingers clenched around the glass bowl and her gray eyes flashed with anger.  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Jon.  More than you would believe.  I didn’t plan to become pregnant, either.  But it’s been the greatest blessing in my life.  If it’s within my power, the person who took that from you will die screaming.  You have my word.”

Jon didn’t have to wonder how Lyanna knew of Daenerys’ pregnancy.  “They will.  But not because of you.  I’m my mother’s son, after all.  Not Catelyn Stark’s.  Aunt Cat would wait for the federal police to bring her justice.  I won’t.  There is no justice in this world.  Not unless we make it.”

“I never wanted this life for you,” she said.  Her face looked regretful, resigned.

“I’m thirty-three years old, mother.  I decide what my life is.”

***

When Shae arrived home at ten to seven, Tyrion was already there waiting for her.  He greeted her at the door.  She leaned over to kiss him.

“I’m so happy to see you, my love,” he said.  “Come here, I have a surprise for you.”  Shae followed him to the dining room.  She was startled to see the table set with their fine china, candles, and her favorite meal.

“You did all this for me?” Shae asked, surprised.  The delightful smell of Silverwing’s delectable prime rib filled the room.

He winked at her.  “Myranda picked up the food and set the table, but I was the one to ask her to, so I’ll take the credit.”  He picked up a small box from the edge of the table and handed it to her.  “A gift for you.”

She opened the red Cartier box and gasped.  Nestled in the box was a set of enormous diamond and white gold earrings.  Designed to follow the curve of the earlobe, they were made of what looked to Shae to be around six carats of diamonds.  Each.  In fact, they looked familiar.  She had seen them in a magazine.

“Tyrion, these are 80,000-dragon earrings,” she said incredulously.  Enchanted, she fingered each one delicately before pinning one to each ear.

He pulled out a chair for her.  “Only the best for my love.”  He kissed her cheek once she sat down.  “And the mother of our child.”

“Our child?”

“I know I’ve put it off for too long, but it’s time,” he said.  “I want you to have every happiness in the world that I can give you.”  He motioned at their meal.  “Eat, love.  I know it’s your favorite.  I wouldn’t want it to get cold.  And we have chocolate soufflé for dessert, as well.”

Shae dipped her spoon into her onion soup, cutting a bit of melted cheese with the spoon’s edge.  _80,000-dragon earrings, prime rib, and a baby.  He definitely knows._

As though he had read her mind, he changed the subject suddenly.  “Oh, I nearly forgot.  I got a call at work today.  Coralyn from the Registrar of Voters in Harrenhal called to say that you’d left your Prada sunglasses there on the counter.  She’s mailing them to the Red Keep so that I can give them back to you.”

Tyrion’s pleasant expression had not slipped an inch, but Shae knew then that it was a mask.  She set her spoon back into the bowl.

“Did you know?” she asked.

“Did I know what?  About your sunglasses?”

“Election rigging,” Shae said quietly, enunciating each word deliberately and angrily.  “Did you know.  That the presidential election.  Was rigged.”

Tyrion considered her solemnly.  “See, here is where the problem was always going to be.  The divide.  We’re on opposite sides of an invisible curtain.  I tried to warn you, but I always knew a day like this would come.”

“And what day is it?”

“The day when you decide what’s more important to you,” he said.  He speared a piece of roasted rosemary-crusted potatoes and ate it.  “Your story or your family.  A future for us and the children we could have, or a headline.  I don’t want it to be this way, but it is that way.”

“I see that,” she said.  “But if this election was rigged, it’s a terrible affront to our democracy.  The people think that they elected Daenerys Targaryen!  Even she thinks that, I suspect.  The people deserve to know the truth.  We deserve the president that we voted for.”

“We did vote for Daenerys,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“The plot was a fool’s errand,” he explained.  “Daenerys won by 30 electoral votes.  Only four districts’ machines were rigged.  Even of those districts, not enough votes were altered to change the final result in any one.  It was completely meaningless.”

“People still deserve to know,” Shae said.

“At what cost?” Tyrion argued.  “Daenerys knows nothing of this.  She’s entirely innocent.  The plot had no effect on the election’s outcome.  She’d be impeached for nothing.  Would you visit me in prison?  We’d never be able to have a family.  Everything ruined, all for something utterly stupid and ineffectual that I never should have agreed to.”

“Agreed with whom?”

“If you’re asking that, you already know the answer,” he said, cutting a piece of prime rib with his knife.  “I don’t know how far you are in the investigation, but you were obviously tipped off by Willas Tyrell.  I’m sure he told you about Walder Frey.”

“Did you know about the bombing?”

“No!” he exclaimed, dropping his knife with a clatter.  “Of course not!  I never would have agreed to that.  Frey did that with no input from anyone else.”

“‘Anyone else,’” she mused.  “So, there were other conspirators?”

“Shae…”

She shook her head and refused to look at him.  He got up and walked over to where she was sitting.  “I’ve never wanted to tell you not to pursue a story.  But this time, I have to.  Please drop this.”  He took her hand and she was quiet a long time.  Finally, she looked at him.

“Do you really want to have a baby?” she asked, staring into his eyes.

“Yes,” he said emphatically.  “I absolutely do.  I have for a long time.  I put my job ahead of my family, and that was a mistake.  You’re my priority.”

Whether Tyrion was lying to her or not, it mattered little.  _He’s right, gods damn him._ She was so angry with him.  Angry to the point she wanted to throw the stupid diamond earrings at his face and storm out of the house.  She took a deep breath and refrained from doing so.  What made her angriest was that despite everything, she was going to agree.  She didn’t want him to go to prison.  She loved him.

“Fine,” she said and let out a long-suffering sigh.  She cut into her prime rib and glared daggers at him.  “I’ll expect you here every other night at nine to impregnate me.  Although fucking you is the dead last thing I want to do right now.  And send Myranda back to Cartier tomorrow.  I want the matching necklace and bracelet.  And Tyrion?”

“What?”

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this.”

***

It seemed like Jon had just fallen asleep when his cell phone rang.  He peered at the phone and saw that Tyrion was calling.  It was just after three in the morning.  He extricated himself from where he had curled up on the small sofa in his old office at the Red Keep just four hours before and answered the call.

“We have a situation,” Tyrion explained.  “How quickly can you be at the Small Council chamber?”

“Five minutes,” he said, stifling a yawn.  “What’s going on?”

“A problem at our embassy in Astapor,” Tyrion said.

“I’ll be right there,” Jon said.  He ended the call, got up, and straightened his clothes.  Hoping fervently that some aide was on hand to bring coffee to the Small Council chamber, he walked there quickly.  He found Tyrion, Trystane, Jorah Mormont, and Secretary of State Quentyn Martell waiting there.

Oftentimes, Secretary of State was a government post given by the president in exchange for a political alliance.  Daenerys preferred capable advisors that she could trust, explaining Quentyn’s appointment.  Jon often had difficulty believing that Quentyn and Trystane were brothers.  Aside from not looking much like one another, they were entirely different in personality.  Quentyn was deliberate, soft-spoken, diplomatic, and cautious – a perfect choice for Secretary of State and the complete opposite of Trystane.

“We just received word from our people in Astapor that our embassy there has been surrounded by anti-government rebels protesting our military presence in Slaver’s Bay,” Quentyn said.  “The Astapori government is denying involvement but are so far doing little to dissuade the protest.  The situation is growing more dangerous by the hour.”

“Why haven’t we pulled the ambassador and our people out of there?” Trystane asked.

“We believe it sends the wrong message,” Mormont answered.  “It would be a sign of weakness to abandon our embassy and it would tell Astapor that we don’t value our diplomatic relationship with them.  It could push them closer to actively allying with Meereen.”

“As opposed to secretly allying with them, as they have been doing?” Jon asked.  “I agree with Trystane, we should get them out of there.  At the very least, non-essential personnel and the ambassador’s family.”

“Ambassador Hightower’s family and most of his staff have been sent to Yunkai for their own safety until the situation has cooled down,” Quentyn said.  “The ambassador himself is refusing to leave.”

“Is this connected to the attack on the president?” Tyrion asked.

“We don’t believe so,” Mormont said.  “We think that it’s a matter of opportunity rather than a true link.”

“‘Never let a crisis go to waste,’” Jon grumbled.  “We could at least increase the ambassador’s security.  We already have substantial military assets in the region.  Surely a few special forces troops could be spared for the embassy.”

“That was what I had in mind as well,” Quentyn said.  “Fifty would suffice.”

“I think that it would be an unnecessary expense and a poor way of allocating personnel,” Jorah said.  “With the elevated threat level, we need to keep our troops where they’re most needed, which is close to Meereen.”

“It sends the wrong message and would only serve to inflame the situation,” Tyrion added.

Trystane shook his head angrily.  “Does it send a worse message than letting our ambassador get killed and sitting on our thumbs while our embassy is overrun by rebels?”

“I think that the cost is minimal compared to the risk to Ambassador Hightower’s life,” Jon said.  “What military objective could be more important than protecting our own people?”

Tyrion looked annoyed.  “I really don’t think this is the purview of the Communications Office.  Insofar as you’re part of it.  You’ve been MIA for quite some time.”

“You asked me to come here, Tyrion,” Jon said, irritated.

“Yes,” he said.  “In case you are asked about it by the press.”

“What do you want me to tell them, then?” Jon asked.  “That the president sat by idly and took no action to protect our diplomats?”

Tyrion ignored him and addressed Quentyn.  “Keep us informed but maintain the status quo for now.  I’m trusting you to take point on this, Quentyn.”

_That is to say, I’m not going to help you, but I’ll be happy to blame you when this goes tits up_ , Jon thought.  _Damn you, Tyrion._

Tyrion and Mormont left the chamber and Quentyn sighed.  “Thanks for trying to help, Trystane.  Not that it did any good.  I don’t suppose you could speak with the president?”

Trystane grimaced.  “I wouldn’t want to disturb her.”  He rapped on the table impatiently with his pen.  “Jon, do you still keep in touch with your friend at the Golden Company?”

“Connington?” he asked.  _A client, not a friend,_ he didn’t say.  “You want to hire mercenaries?  With what for money?”

“State Department discretionary fund,” Quentyn said.

Jon whistled.  “Tyrion won’t like you going around him.”

“I don’t care what Lannister likes or what he doesn’t like,” Quentyn said belligerently _._   “It’s my job to protect our embassy staff.  He said that he wanted me to take point.”

_Never mind, he’s a Martell alright_ , Jon thought.  “I’ll make a call.”

***

Daenerys’ eyes fluttered open.  Mid-morning light filtered through the window shade.  She turned her head and saw Jon dozing in a chair at her bedside.

“Hey, you,” she said.

He jerked awake.  “Dany.”

“Afraid so,” she quipped.  “What are you doing here, _ñuhys dārilaros?_ Don’t you have something to fix?  A crisis to manage?”

“Yes,” he said.  “Plenty of all that.  But it can wait.  I wanted to see you, _ñuha dāria.”_

She smiled.  “What’s going on in the world, Communications Director Snow?”

He snorted and shook his head.  “Nothing good.  But we have it under control.  I just want you to concentrate on getting better.”

“I have a television and a tablet, so you’re out of luck,” she said.  “What’s happening in Astapor?”

“Our embassy is under siege by anti-government rebels,” he blew out an annoyed breath.  “Secretary Martell is on top of things.”

“Define ‘on top of things,’” she said.

Jon sighed.  “I don’t want you to worry about work.  You should be resting.”

“I’ll worry more if my advisers keep things from me,” she admonished him.  “What’s Quentyn up to?”

“Tyrion and Jorah don’t want to send more troops to guard the ambassador, who refuses to leave his post.  They say we can’t spare the resources and that it ‘sends a bad message.’  One of my contacts is a top guy at the Golden Company.  We’re sending in a team of mercenaries to protect the ambassador using State Department discretionary funds.”

“We?  As in you and Quentyn?” Daenerys asked.  _Spit it out, Jon.  I know when you’re hiding things from me._

“And Trystane,” Jon said, wincing.  “It was his idea, actually.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes.  “I had thought that he would be having whores rubbing him down with coconut oil beside the Water Gardens by now.”

“I told him to stay put until you’re discharged,” Jon said.

Daenerys ground her teeth in annoyance.  _Meddling, stubborn Northern fool._ “Maybe if you hadn’t, he wouldn’t have had the chance to air our dirty laundry with the Sunspear Inquirer.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jon said.  “I’m handling it.  I offered Valena an exclusive on Astapor if she dropped the story.  She was eager to agree.  The Inquirer is trying to revamp their image.  It’s not going to be an ongoing problem.  I have Trystane under control.”  _If that’s really so, I’d love to know your fucking secret._

“I don’t need fixing, Jon,” Daenerys said, exasperated.  “You can delay this from coming out in the press, but eventually, it’s going to come out.  He betrayed me.  Trystane and I are finished.  Isn’t that what you want?  You and I could finally be together.”

“You and I _are_ together, _ñuha dāria,”_ Jon said, gazing at her lovingly.  “We’ll always be together.  The things I have to do to protect you don’t change that.  I have a plan.  Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she said, not hesitating.  Her heart melted for him when he looked at her so sweetly, the way he looked at no one else, and her irritation faded away.

“I brought you something,” Jon said with a grin.  “Close your eyes; I didn’t have a chance to wrap it.”

Daenerys did as he asked and soon felt something soft in her hands.  “You can open them now,” Jon said.

Daenerys looked down and saw that she was holding an ice blue and white stuffed dragon the size of a cat.  She squeezed it and found that it let out a little roar when she did.

She laughed.  _“Zoklītsos._ That’s his name.”

“You don’t think a dragon would be offended at being called ‘little wolf?’’” Jon asked.

“Nah,” she said.  “All Targaryens have a little wolf blood.  Since Aegon the White Wolf.  You told me that, remember?”  She moved the dragon in the air towards Jon, flapping its little blue wings.

Jon smiled.  “I remember.”


	14. I’m On Your Side When Times Get Rough, When Friends Just Can’t Be Found.  Like A Bridge Over Troubled Water, I Will Lay Me Down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna gives an order. A peacekeeping mission goes awry. Events in Astapor prove that Jon, Trystane, and Quentyn made the right call. Jaime finds himself shut out. Willas and Mya continue their investigation. A classic movie inspires Arya to change JSA's strategy in investigating the attempted assassination of the president. Jon reveals a secret. Daenerys goes on offense on the Ryswell case, but Jon has a plan B. Trystane returns to Sunspear. Oberyn stages an intervention. Jon makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from Simon and Garfunkel's "Bridge Over Troubled Water." Check out the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN).
> 
> My apologies for both the long wait for this chapter and its long length. I had thought to cut it into two or three parts, but chronologically and thematically, it all fit together so well that I didn't have the heart to break it (at least IMHO it did). 
> 
> If you're a fan of this story, I appreciate your support so much. I will try to make updates more frequent; there are currently 25 chapters and 175,635 words (chapters 15-24 and chapter 30 are partially done). I am also updating tags concurrently with posting this chapter.

 

Chapter 14

“I’m On Your Side When Times Get Rough, When Friends Just Can’t Be Found.  Like A Bridge Over Troubled Water, I Will Lay Me Down.”

 

“Gendry, I want you to take point on this,” Lyanna said.  “There’s no higher priority.  Whatever it takes, whatever laws you need to break, do it.  I want to know who hired that shooter and I want him eliminated.”

“Ma’am, no insubordination is intended that I say this, but isn’t finding the perpetrator of an attempted assassination the purview of the federal police?  We have a different mission.”

“I don’t need my subordinates to explain WS-125’s mission to me, Gendry,” Lyanna said sharply.  “Do you think that I do?  Do you think you’re in charge here?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What is WS-125’s mission?  I think you may be confused.”

“Preserve the Republic.”

“And who decides how best to do that?”

“You do, ma’am.”

“I shouldn’t have to remind you of this,” she said.

“No, ma’am.”

“Who am I?”

“Command, ma’am.”

“You don’t take Command.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Find him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

***

_Skirling Pass, 1985 AC_

Ned could feel the jeep struggle underneath him on the steep grade.  They had escaped the wildling ambush, but they were in the only vehicle of their platoon to do so.  The jeep had been the first in the convoy and hadn’t triggered the IED.  The one behind them had.  Ned helplessly watched in his rearview mirror as the next of the platoon’s vehicles was blown apart.  As much as he wanted to stay behind to help his brothers-in-arms, his orders had been clear.  _Get through the pass._

Ned, Qhorin, and William had hoped for the rest of the platoon to join them at the next objective rally point.  No one had joined them.  They had been forced to abandon the position when the company’s captain had radioed them and said that the wildlings were advancing on them.

The pass was narrow, so their options for retreat were limited.  To go back guaranteed that they would be intercepted by the wildling forces.  To go forward was dangerous; wildling forces were all over the area and there were no friendly forces for miles.  They were behind enemy lines.  Soon, they would run out of fuel and supplies, as the extras had been in a vehicle at the rear of the convoy.

“Hold at 52°56'11.3" north, 118°11'56.7" west, Lieutenant Stark,” the captain had said.  “I’m sending a helo to get you out.”  Just then, Ned heard machine gun fire.

“Take cover!” Ned shouted.

It was pointless.  The wildlings were upon them.  There would be no rescue.  He pressed the button to radio the captain.

“Enemy forces advancing on our position,” he said.  Looking around quickly before ducking back down, he added.  “We’re surrounded.”  He dropped the radio as the wildlings approached the jeep.

A man opened the door to the jeep and pulled Ned out and shoved him to the ground.  “My name is Lieutenant Eddard Stark, serial number 82-N098736,” Ned said with effort after he had pulled himself up from the snow.  Qhorin and William were thrown down next to him.  “I am requesting prisoner of war status under the Braavos Convention III for myself and my companions, Sergeant Qhorin Halfhand and Corporal William Dustin.”  _Not that these savages care a bit about the Braavos Convention III, but that’s what we’re ordered to say.  I owe it to my men, regardless of how ridiculous it sounds._

Technically speaking, the Free Republic of Northern Westeros was a signatory to the third Braavos Convention, which related to the humane treatment of prisoners of war and stipulated the ridiculous utterance Ned had been forced to make. It was most likely irrelevant after five years of civil war beyond the Wall.  The Northern Liberation Front owned this pass.  Even if the official FRNW government had captured them, only lip service would be paid to “humane treatment.”  The NLF would laugh in their faces before torturing them for information and killing them.  Maybe they’d even eat them, if the rumors were true.  Regardless of which group of wildlings had captured them, they would be killed.  Their families would never receive their remains nor be told the truth of what became of them. 

_So much for “peacekeeping.”_

Another man approached the trio, on their knees in the snow.  His cold brown eyes regarded Ned shrewdly.  “Lieutenant Stark,” he said.  “Since you’re such a proponent of international agreements, I wonder if you’re aware that your presence here violates several of them.”  The man chuckled.  “But don’t worry, you can rest assured that the freedom fighters of the Northern Liberation Front adhere to the third Braavos Convention.  As the legitimate government of the Free Republic of Northern Westeros, we are eager to show the world that we are a nation of peace and justice.” 

Several of the wildings around them laughed.  The man who had pulled Ned out of the jeep kicked him in the back and Ned found himself with a face full of snow.  The man who had spoken before and appeared to be the group’s leader instructed the one who had kicked him.  His Northern burr was thick with sarcasm.  “Rattleshirt, prepare the prisoners for transport to the camp.  Make sure that you _carefully_ follow all the international agreements and treaties to which FRNW is a party.  I won’t have it said that NLF violates _international law.’”_

Rattleshirt barked out a laugh and proceed to tie Ned up.

***

_King’s Landing, 2018 AC_

Jon was getting into his car when his phone rang.  He saw that it was Quentyn Martell.

“There’s been an explosion at the embassy,” Quentyn said.  “We’ve lost communications with Ambassador Hightower.”

“Any communications from the Golden Company soldiers?”

“The last we heard from them was thirty minutes ago,” Quentyn said.  “I’ve been trying to contact them but haven’t been successful yet.  I know that fifty of their people arrived at the embassy five hours ago.”

“What about Connington?  Have you called him?”

“Yes,” Quentyn said.  “He lost communications with his men as well.  He said that their orders are to maintain radio silence in the event that the Ambassador needed to be evacuated.”

“Has Tyrion called the Small Council?”

“Yes,” Quentyn said.  “The president is going to attend via teleconference.”

“I’m on my way.”

He hung up the phone and turned on his radio.  KZBQ was already reporting the explosion at the embassy.  He listened until he arrived at the Red Keep, then took one of the tunnels that ran under the keep from the parking structure.  He didn’t usually duck the press by taking the tunnel, but he didn’t want to get bogged down by reporters and keep the rest of the Small Council waiting.  The presidential guard at the tunnel entrance scanned his hard pass and let him through.

The president’s advisors trickled into the chamber.  Jon saw that the Vice President looked angry.  _What, he expected to be in the inner circle after the stunt that he pulled?_ Tyrion and Jorah looked like they would rather be anywhere else.  _Can’t say I blame them.  I wouldn’t want to have to explain their position on security at the embassy to the president, considering what happened._ Quentyn had invited his brother, though strictly speaking, the president’s spouse wasn’t part of the Small Council.  Traditionally, some presidents in the past had included their wives and some had not.  Trystane himself attended meetings of the Small Council about three-quarters of the time.  _Daenerys won’t like it, but at least his instincts were correct.  It may not have saved the ambassador, but at least he tried.  That’s more than can be said for the Hand or the National Security Director._

An aide adjusted the TV screen and Daenerys’ face filled the screen.  The assembled advisors quieted and rose from their seats as was the custom.

“Sit down, everyone,” Daenerys said.  “What do we know?”

“Thirty-three minutes ago, there was a small explosion at our embassy in Astapor,” Quentyn said.  “We were unable to determine the full extent of the damage or if there were any casualties because we lost communications with both Ambassador Hightower and the Golden Company contingent that arrived five and half hours ago to supplement his guard.  Five minutes ago, there was another explosion, this one much larger.  According to our assets on the ground in Astapor outside the embassy, the entire building has been leveled.”

Daenerys grimaced.  “Still no word from the ambassador or the Golden Company?”

“Nothing yet,” Quentyn said.  “That’s not necessarily bad news.  Commander Connington says that his men were instructed to maintain radio silence if an evacuation became necessary.”

“Who authorized the use of mercenaries to guard the embassy?” Jorah asked, indignant.  _Are you kidding me?_ Jon noted that Tyrion had the good sense to hold his tongue.

“I did,” Quentyn said.

“On whose authority?” Jorah pressed.

“Mine,” Quentyn replied angrily.  “I have discretion to use State Department _discretionary_ funds, do I not?”

“That’s enough, Jorah,” Daenerys said.  “How the State Department uses its discretionary funds is its business.  Had Quentyn and Jon not taken swift action to address this problem, there would be a much greater chance that the ambassador would have been killed.”

Trystane rolled his eyes but held his tongue.  _That’s the smart move.  Keep it up._

Quentyn, like nearly everyone in the room, was clueless.  “Actually, it was my brother’s idea, Madam President.”

A brief look of disgust passed Daenerys’ face as her eyes landed on Trystane.  “Good job, dear.”

Trystane gritted his teeth.  “Uh huh.  Can we get on with it, then?  How long until we hear from Connington?”

Jon spoke up.  “He just texted me.  He said that as soon as his men are in a safe location, they’ll contact us.  He said that they would likely head to one of their safe houses between Astapor and Yunkai and call from there.  It could be a few hours.”

“Until then, we’ll avoid making any statements to the press,” Daenerys said.  “We’ll reconvene once we get word from Connington.  That’ll be all.  Jorah, Tyrion – a word?”

Tyrion grimaced.  The Small Council filed out of the chamber.  Trystane smirked at Tyrion.  Jon thought it was smart to wait until they found out if the ambassador had survived before gloating.  They weren’t out of the woods yet.

“Jon,” he heard the vice president say.  He turned around to see Jaime Lannister staring at him angrily. 

Jon smiled politely.  “How can I help you, Jaime?”

“You can start by explaining why I’m just now finding out that there was a threat against our embassy in Astapor and that you and the Martells secretly hired mercenaries to guard a Westerosi diplomatic outpost.”

Jon’s pleasant smile didn’t slip.  “You found out at the same time as most of the Small Council.  Hiring the Golden Company wasn’t a secret.  The president knew.  Would you rather Ambassador Hightower been left unprotected?  He’s your brother-in-law, is he not?”

“That’s precisely why I should have been told.  One of the reasons.”

“We’re doing everything that we can for him,” Jon explained.  “He didn’t want to leave his post.  Tyrion and Jorah didn’t think any military resources could be spared.  Quentyn and Trystane took the initiative to make sure that your brother-in-law was as protected as possible, given the circumstances.  I don’t understand why you’re angry.”

“I should have been notified immediately.”

Jon crossed his arms and eyed Lannister speculatively.  “Are you really surprised to be on the outside?  After the stunt you and Cersei pulled?  Your self-serving behavior that both threatened national security and distracted the president’s advisors from navigating a crisis has not gone unnoticed.”

Jaime gritted his teeth.  “It was Cersei’s idea.”

“Did you consider saying no?” Jon asked.  “You need to get her under control or at the very least, distance yourself from her.  If you’d like to be involved in decision-making here, that is.  She’s a loose cannon.  I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.  She has no official government role.  That’s on purpose.  Additionally, I don’t tolerate being threatened.”

“Neither do I,” Jaime hissed.

Jon couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer.  He looked around to make sure that no one could be listening in.  They were alone.  The rest of the Small Council had dispersed.  “What is it that you think you know about me, Jaime?”

Jaime gave him a smug look but didn’t reply.

“Come on,” Jon teased.  “I showed you mine.  Now you show me yours.”  Jon had been hesitant to ask before.  The crisis had taken precedence and he hadn’t wanted to appear weak.  But the more he thought about it, the more he suspected that Jaime couldn’t possibly know the truth.  “I guess I could just leak what I have to a reporter.  That would coax it out of you, I expect.”

Jaime huffed in aggravation before biting out a reply.  “I know that Ned Stark is your father.  He may have pretended to merely be your foster father, but he’s your biological father in truth.  He met your mother beyond the wall around the time you would have been conceived.  I have a source that confirms it.”

Jon’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth fell open into a wide, surprised grin.  “Oh.  _Oh._   That’s it, then?  That’s all you have?”  He started laughing, unable to contain it anymore.

Jaime glared at him.  “Do you deny it?  Perhaps you don’t know the truth yourself.”

It took Jon a moment to stop laughing before he could answer.  “I deny nothing, Jaime.  In fact, go to the press with that.  Please.  Wait until a slow news cycle so you can really milk it.”

“I don’t relish the idea of besmirching Governor Stark’s good reputation,” Jaime said, eyes narrowed.  “If the truth came out, it would be more damaging to his memory and to his surviving children than it would be to you.”

Jon grinned.  “The _truth_?  You don’t need to worry about that.  The truth is like a caged lion.  You know all about caged lions.  They have a few at the Rock, no?  Let a lion out of its cage, and it defends itself.  Leak it, go ahead.  You’ll see.”

Jaime looked deflated.  “I don’t think that will be necessary.  I’d like it much better if you and I were friends.”

“Oh, of course, Jaime,” Jon said effusively.  “I agree.  Next time there’s a national security crisis at three a.m., you’ll be my first phone call, _friend.”_

_***_

_Skirling Pass, 1985 AC_

It wasn’t as bad as Ned had had feared.  He was cold and hungry, and his eye was swollen from where a wildling had punched him after Ned had refused to answer any of his questions, but he was alive.  It was more than Ned had expected.  He feared for his men, though; both Qhorin and William were being kept separately from him.  Ned himself was tied up with rope binding his ankles and wrists.  He sat on a thin and worn foam mat that did little to keep away the chill inside the small, darkened tent.

The tent flap opened, revealing a sliver of frozen fog as a young woman entered the tent.  She carried a small bag that she opened as she approached Ned.  She handed Ned a sad little sandwich made of stale bread and a single cold slice of processed cheese.  He took it eagerly with his bound hands and bit off a large chunk.

The woman sat in silence while he ate, never taking her eyes off Ned.  The other wildlings had been loud and boisterous, but this woman was different.  She was slim and gray-eyed; her thick brown hair fell in wild tangles to the small of her back.  Her clothes revealed her to be a wildling spearwife.  When Ned finished his sandwich, the woman pulled a cloth from her bag and wetted it with water from a canteen.

She pressed the wet cloth to his eye gently.  It was very cold.  “Your face has dried blood on it and your eye is swollen,” she said.  “This should help.”  When the woman said nothing further, Ned broke the silence.

“Where are my friends?” he asked.

The woman looked at him sadly.  “They’re safe for now.  They’re in other tents.”

Ned didn’t understand why the woman didn’t try to question him as the other wildling had.  “What’s your name?”

The wildling woman blew out a weary breath.  “My name is Osha.”

“Are you going to kill me, Osha?” Ned asked.

She shook her head.  “I’m not going to kill you, Lieutenant Stark.  But you are in danger.”

“Can you explain?” he asked.

Osha lowered the cloth and put it back in her bag.  “Mance doesn’t like the idea of traveling with captives and he doesn’t want to stay here in the pass for long.”

 _Mance Rayder,_ Ned realized with shock.  _We were nearly upon the NLF commander and never realized it._

“We need to be getting along and having three southern soldiers in tow makes us a target, particularly since one is _of note_.  Even if you were willing to talk, he doubts that you have information of value.  Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to give Mance your name, _Lieutenant Stark_.”

Ned winced.  It was all true.  The only troop movements he was intimately acquainted with were his own, and his platoon was likely gone.  Anything else useful to the wildlings could be gleaned with a bit of effort from the maps and notes he had been carrying in the jeep.  And while he had no choice about following orders, every person on the continent knew the name Stark.  Still, there was no need for NLF to kill them.

“Will he let us go?”

The woman regarded him solemnly.  “No.”

Ned lowered his voice.  “You could let us go.”

The woman’s brow creased momentarily, and she closed her eyes as if thinking.  She opened her eyes and stared at Ned, clearly troubled but certain.  She had made her decision.  “I can.”

***

_King’s Landing, 2018 AC_

Mya’s eyes went wide when Willas showed her the results of the test vote on the Skytech emulator program.

“Are you sure that it isn’t just this one card?  Couldn’t they, whoever they are, say it’s an anomaly?  Isn’t it possible that the president’s enemies planted this card after the election to implicate her in a plot that may have never happened and that she had no knowledge of?”

Willas exhaled anxiously.  “Theoretically, you could be right.  Shae Lannister is convinced, though.  She said that when the president brought up the Harrenhal results at her nameday party, she was completely comfortable talking about it.  Shae said that her husband, the president’s husband, and Justice Redwyne all looked anxious when it was brought up.”

“That proves nothing.  What about Snow?  None of those people would have been able pull this off without him.”

“I suspect that he was involved.”

“But you have no proof.”

“I do have something, in fact.  Four different polling organizations did exit polling in the Riverlands.  If you look at it district-by-district, all but four districts came out more or less the same.  The four districts around Harrenhal were different.  Each poll was distinct for those.  Baratheon’s internals had him with a slight edge, a half point ahead of Targaryen in two districts, and one point behind in the other two.  WCN’s had Targaryen one to two points ahead in all four.  University of the Riverlands had Baratheon up by one to two points in God’s Eye North and Harrenhal Estates; and Targaryen up by three to five points in Harrenhal and God’s Eye West.  Targaryen’s own internals had her up by four to five points in all four districts.  That’s a big difference.”

“It sounds like Targaryen’s were the only ones that were accurate,” Mya said.  “Depending on the poll, they were as much as seven points apart.  That’s no smoking gun.  If your theory is right, and those are the rigged districts, then it couldn’t have been enough to swing the election towards Targaryen.  She would have won anyway, even if she had lost all four of those districts.  It sounds like even if the other polls were right, she might have captured two or more of them even without rigged machines.  Maybe all of them.”

“The point isn’t that the rigging made the difference,” Willas said.  “The point is that if Targaryen’s internals were falsified, they must have known.  Why order fake exit polls if you don’t know that you need them?  And only one person would have ordered polls for the Targaryen campaign, and that’s Jon Snow.”

“It’s circumstantial,” Mya said.

“That may be, but what about the Skytech bombing?  Redwyne has the connections to get Tarly’s case dropped.  Tarly works for Jon Snow.  Skytech made the voting software.  Someone at Skytech must have been involved.  What’s the most likely connection?”

“The Skytech conspirator, most likely Chella Blackear, demanded more money or threatened to expose the conspiracy.  One of the other conspirators had her killed and set Tarly up.”

“Why would Redwyne and Snow go to so much effort to make sure he didn’t go down for it?  It seems to me that whoever killed Blackear – and my money is on Frey for this – went rogue.  The other conspirators probably had nothing to do with it and were angry when they learned.”

“That means there’s trouble in paradise,” Mya mused.  “We can turn them against each other.  To do that, though, we need hard evidence.”

“Exactly,” Willas said.  “The points of weakness are the money trails.  If we can find the money trail to the bomber and the money trail to Blackear, we’ll have something solid enough to scare of them into talking.  The most likely source is Frey.  It’s theoretically possible that it was Martell, but my gut tells me it was Frey.  The calls were made to Frey Petroleum.”

“What about Shae Lannister?  She found the card.  Does she have anything else?”

“I’ve tried to call her, but she hasn’t returned any of my messages.”

“That’s not good.”

“I’ll keep trying.”

***

_Skirling Pass, 1985 AC_

The camp was quiet and completely dark when Osha returned.  It was the middle of the night, but Ned hadn’t been sleeping.  He sat up straight when he heard movement in the tent.

“It’s me,” she whispered.  She cut the bindings from his wrists and ankles and handed him a ratty wool coat lined with fur.  It smelled, but it was warmer than what he had been wearing and it fit.  His military-issued coat had been taken from him.

“Let’s go,” she said.  Ned followed Osha to the edge of the camp.  It was a cloudy, moonless night; even starlight was denied to them.  Ned could barely see Osha who was a foot in front of him.  He couldn’t understand how she was able to find her way in the dark.

They arrived at a jeep similar to Ned’s, but older.  Qhorin and William were waiting in the back.  Osha got behind the wheel and Ned climbed in next to her.

“There are only two men guarding the vehicles,” Osha said quietly.  “They’ll wake up and try to come after us, but I cut all their spark plug wires.  Keep your heads down in case they try to shoot at us.”

The men nodded, and Osha started the jeep.  When it roared to life, Ned heard a shout from one of the guards.  Osha stepped on the gas, and the studded tires bit through the snow as they drove towards the road.  Ned kept his head down, which was fortunate because a second later, he heard gunshots.  Osha kept driving.  Ned heard a bullet punch through the canvas top of the vehicle.

Soon, the camp was behind them and they were driving through the pass.  “Ned,” Qhorin said urgently.  “William’s been shot.”

“We need to keep going,” William said, his voice pained.  “It got me in the arm.  I’ll be fine.”

“Is there a flashlight in here?” Ned asked Osha.

“In the backseat on the floor,” she said.

Qhorin picked up the flashlight and turned in on William’s wound.  “It’s bleeding badly,” he said. 

Ned looked and saw William’s left side was covered in blood.  “Keep pressure on the wound.  We have to get out of this pass or we’ll be recaptured.  Mance’s camp’s vehicles were disabled, but they’re probably not the only wildlings in this pass.”

“I have a friend who can get us onto a ship if we can make it to the Frozen Shore,” Osha said.

“You’re not heading towards the Wall?” Ned asked.

“No, there are too many FRNW soldiers near the Wall,” Osha said.  “They’d be very happy to capture either Westerosi soldiers or an NLF member.  We’d never make it.”

“I think I smell gas,” Qhorin said.  Ned inhaled deeply and realized that he was right.

“The gas gauge isn’t going down,” Osha said.  “A bullet must have pierced the extra gas can that I brought.”

“Can we make it to the Frozen Shore with what’s left in the tank?” Qhorin asked.

“I don’t know.”

***

_King’s Landing, 2018 AC_

The Small Council had reassembled when Quentyn and Jon both received a notification that Jon Connington had reestablished contact with his men and that they would be able to communicate with them via secure video teleconference.  Daenerys attended the meeting remotely once more.  A second screen was awaiting the contact with the Golden Company.

The room was filled with tension while they waited for the Golden Company soldiers to establish contact.  All Connington knew was that at least some of his men had escaped the initial bombing.  The short, coded message, sent in a fashion too easy to intercept to use for classified communications, contained no other information.

The screen came to life, filled with Ambassador Hightower’s face.  He was dirty, but alive.  Everyone in the room exclaimed with relief, as did Daenerys, who was seeing him on a split screen on her tablet.

“Baelor,” she said with relief.  “Next time Quentyn tells you to evacuate, you do it.  Understand?”

“I will, Madam President,” Hightower said.  “Thank you for sending the Golden Company.  I wouldn’t have made it out without them.”

Daenerys laughed.  “I’m laid-up and helpless here.  Thank the illustrious brothers Martell and the White Wolf, here.  It was their idea.  Where are you?”

“Just over the Yunkish border at a safe house, Madam President.  We’ll travel to the city shortly where my family and staff are already at the embassy there.”

“I want you and the diplomatic service officers from Astapor to return to King’s Landing immediately.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Tyrion spoke up.  “Does the Golden Company know who bombed our embassy?”

A Golden Company captain leaned behind the ambassador.  “Mr. Lannister, we believe that the bombers were rebels associated with a group called 'Sons of the Harpy.'  They’re a terrorist group opposed to the Westerosi presence in Slaver’s Bay.  Shortly after the first bomb went off, one of my men found a gold harpy’s mask.  That’s their calling card.”

Jon groaned internally.  The Sons of the Harpy were known to all the Republic’s intelligence agencies, of course.  It was disturbing news that they were embedded in rebel elements in Astapor.  More disturbing still was the prospect that Astapor had let the Harpies’ activities within their borders go unchecked.  It was an open secret that they were supported by the government of Meereen.  Now, it appeared that they may have another state sponsor.

“Were you able to find out anything else about the connection between the rebels and the Harpies?” Tyrion asked.

“We have not, but any information that we are able to get will be passed to you immediately,” the captain said.

Daenerys cleared her throat.  “Captain, the Republic of Westeros is in your debt.  You and your men have the thanks of all our citizens.  Ambassador Hightower, may the gods guide your journey home.”

The ambassador nodded respectfully.  “Madam President.”  The Golden Company video feed disconnected.

Daenerys looked tired.  “As happy as I am that Ambassador Hightower survived, this is distressing news.  I want everyone, in every department, working on tracking down the Sons of the Harpy.  I want to know where they, where their leaders are, who is funding them, and what targets they plan to hit next.  With the quick thinking and action of a few of you, we were able to dodge a bullet this time.  Next time, we may not be so fortunate.  We need to make sure that there isn’t a next time.  Jorah, I want a threat assessment brought out to me at KLU first thing tomorrow morning.”

Jorah had the good sense to not argue.  “Yes, Madam President.”

***

_Frozen Shore, 1985 AC_

They could see the scattered lights of the Frozen Shore at the bottom the hill when the engine sputtered to a stop.  The small port town was perhaps 15 miles away.  Osha pulled the jeep to the side of the road.

“That’s it, then,” she said.  “Stay here.  I’m going to check the gas can to see if there’s anything left.  If the hole isn’t in the bottom, we might have enough to make it.”

Ned shivered.  With the jeep stalled, there was no more heat.  The cold wind sapped the last of the warmth when Osha opened the door.  He turned around to check on William and Qhorin.  He saw that William’s eyes were closed, and unlike Ned and Qhorin, he was no longer shivering.

“He’s gone, Ned,” Qhorin said quietly.  “I’m sorry.”

Ned sucked in a deep, pained breath and closed his eyes tightly.  He only opened them a minute later when Osha returned.

“We’re in luck,” she said.  “There’s still about half a can in here.”  Osha emptied the can into the tank and got back in the jeep and resumed driving just as headlights appeared on the road behind them.  Ned turned to see who was following them, but it was too dark to see any details of the vehicle, which continued to come closer to them even as Osha sped up.

Osha checked the rearview mirror.  “Those are NLF scouts.  Just one vehicle.  There could only be as many as four in that vehicle.  They’ll try to shoot at us.  Take cover.”

Just as she finished speaking, a bullet hit the side mirror next to Ned.  He turned to Osha.  “Did you bring a gun?  Because it would be really great if you did.”

“Under your seat.  Shoot straight.  I couldn’t get any extra ammo.”

Ned found the MP5 under the seat.  It wasn’t a gun that Ned had used before, but better suited for firing out of a moving car than the rifle he normally used.  Ned unbuckled his seatbelt and positioned himself awkwardly to hang partway out of the window.  A bullet whizzed by his head.  He fired at the enemy vehicle, aiming for the tires.  One tire blew out, and the NLF jeep driver lost control momentarily, swerved, skidded, but then regained control.

Ned nearly flew through the window when one of their own tires blew out.  Osha maintained control, but then another tire was shot.  Their jeep hit a patch of ice just at that inopportune moment, and they crashed into a snow bank.

Ned was thrown from the jeep onto his back in the snow.  When he caught his breath, he saw that Qhorin had taken his gun and was shooting at the NLF vehicle which had stopped about fifty feet from them, positioned behind their own vehicle for cover.  Osha pulled a handgun from her waistband and began firing at the NLF scouts, walking towards them.

Osha fired her first shot, hitting the nearest scout in the throat.  A second scout fired, missing her even as she walked closer.  She fired a second shot, hitting the scout that had shot at her in the forehead.  A third scout was firing his gun as well; Ned heard a groan of pain and saw that Qhorin had been shot in the chest.  Ned pulled himself out of the snow and ran to him.

The bullet had punctured Qhorin’s lung.  Ned’s friend struggled to speak, and Ned shushed him.  “Don’t try to talk.  You’re going to be okay.”

Qhorin tried and failed to laugh.  “Bullshit, Ned.  Look at where we are.  I know a bullet to the lung when I feel it.”

Ned scoffed.  “How would you know?  You ever been shot in the lung before?”

“First time,” he gasped.

Ned looked up and saw Osha walking towards them.  Four dead NLF scouts lay on the frozen ground behind her.

Ned looked at Osha miserably.  She eyed Qhorin’s wound and shook her head at Ned sadly.  Qhorin took a last gasping breath and didn’t take the next one.  A tear formed in Ned’s eye and he took a shaky breath.  “I tried to shoot at them, keep them from coming.  I failed.  I’m sorry.”

Osha gritted her teeth and pulled Ned up from the snow.  “Sorry doesn’t matter, Ned.  Let’s go.”

***

_King’s Landing, 2018 AC_

Arya nestled her feet in Ned’s lap and he didn’t hesitate before starting to massage them.  Arya groaned with relief as she flipped through the options on Netflix.  Ned looked up at the screen as Arya was scrolling through the classic movie category.

He perked up.  “Casablanca,” he exclaimed.  “That’s my favorite.”

Arya rolled her eyes.  “Isn’t that a romance?  I hate romances.”

“No,” Ned scoffed.  “It’s about patriotism and sacrifice during wartime.  You’ll love it.

Ned hadn’t been exactly forthcoming about the movie’s themes, but Arya enjoyed it anyway.  It didn’t hurt that Ned had continued to massage her feet, back, head, and shoulders as they watched.

It was nearly the end of the movie, and Rick had shot Major Strasser.  The plane to Lisbon whirred in the background.  A car of police that had been summoned by Strasser’s earlier call arrived at the airport.

_“Major Strasser has been shot,” Captain Renault said stiffly to the newly arrived police._

_Rick looked at him in trepidation, clearly expecting that the captain would instruct the police to arrest him._

_“Round up the usual suspects,” Renault finished._

Arya finished watching the scene, her mind continuing to visualize the exchange and Renault’s words.  She barely noticed when the movie ended.  Ned let go of her shoulders and picked up the remote to choose a new movie.

_Round up the usual suspects._

_We’re going about this entirely wrong,_ Arya realized.  _We’re looking for evidence to lead us to the shooter, who we hope will lead us to the person who hired the shooter.  We should be doing the opposite.  Decide who did this, then find evidence to prove it.  Round up the usual suspects._

Ned looked at her worriedly when he saw the look on her face.  She reached for her phone and tapped on Jon’s name to call him.

“What’s wrong?” Ned asked as the phone rang in Arya’s ear.

“Round up the usual suspects,” Arya muttered to him.

“Yeah, Arya?” Jon answered.

“We need to meet.  Now.”

***

_Deepwood Motte, 1985 AC_

Osha had walked with him the two miles from the harbor to the Deepwood Motte army base.  They had been quiet on the way, the loss of Qhorin and William weighing heavily on his mind.  When they were in sight of the gate, Osha stopped abruptly.

“This is where I leave you,” she said.

Ned looked at her in surprise.  “You don’t need to run anymore, Osha.  We’re in Westeros now.  You can ask for asylum.  I’ll vouch for you.  You could come with me to Winterfell.  NLF can’t find you there.  I can help you start a new life.  I want to keep you safe.”

“I appreciate that, Ned,” Osha said.  “There are some things that I have to do.  I’d like to think that we’ll see each other again someday.”

“We will,” Ned said firmly.  “Anything you need, you can come to me for help, always.  I owe you my life.  I’ll never forget what you did for me.”  He hugged her fiercely.  “Thank you, Osha.”

“Goodbye, Ned.”  She turned and walked back towards the harbor.  Ned waited until she had disappeared from view, and then walked towards the army base.

***

_King’s Landing, 2018 AC_

The associates of JSA were not all thrilled to be called to work so late at night, but nonetheless, they were there.  Arya explained Casablanca’s plot, perhaps unnecessarily.

“Arya, I’ve seen Casablanca literally a hundred times.  Please get to the point,” Sansa objected tiredly.

Jon sat quietly.  He knew that Arya would not call an unnecessary late-night meeting and that she was merely working through her thought process.

“We’ve been acting like cops,” Arya spat.  “We are not cops.  We shouldn’t be gathering evidence, looking for underlings, and planning how we might press them for intel.  That’s what the federal police are doing.  We need to do what we do best.  Put the screws to the most powerful people in Westeros.  Round up the usual suspects.”

Jon got up and stood in front of the white board, grabbed a marker, and looked at Arya, nodding at her to finish.  He already knew where she was going with this.

“Who do we know with the cash and the connections to order a hit on the President of Westeros?” Arya asked.  “Robb and Sandor have already determined that this was a domestic, politically motivated assassination attempt.  We’re looking for one of our own countrymen – a rich, powerful, well-connected one.”

Robb sighed.  “There are a lot of people with enough money to do it.  It doesn’t really cost as much as you might think.  Far too many people to investigate.”

“But the connections – that’s harder,” Arya insisted.  “And we should limit it.”

Sam and Sandor nodded.

“Who do we know with enough money, connections, and motive to kill the president?  And who is known to or is suspected to use violent action to solve political problems?” Arya asked.

Jon uncapped his marker.  “That’s a much shorter list.  Give me names.”

“Petyr Baelish,” Sam and Sansa said at once.

“Roose Bolton,” Robb said.  “We already suspect him in another assassination.”

Jon wrote down the names.

“Tywin Lannister,” Satin said.  “No one can prove it, but there are plenty of rumors.  And the motive can’t get any better than his.”

“Oberyn Martell,” Jon added, writing down the name as he spoke it.  “As unlikely as it seems, he did ask me to kill Joffrey.”

“That wasn’t political,” Arya objected. 

“It was in the sense that he knew he couldn’t rely on the justice system because of the political power of the Lannister family.  Additionally, we know he and his brother are not very happy with the president right now.”

Robb sighed.  “Anyone else?”

“Euron Greyjoy is a nasty cunt,” Sandor added.  “I’ve heard stories about him.”

“Motive is a little thin, but House Greyjoy has long been a political enemy of House Targaryen,” Jon mused.  “This administration hasn’t been too friendly to their business interests.”

He wrote down the name.  “Anyone else?”

They all sat quietly, mulling over the possibilities.  _Who is known to use violent action to solve political problems?_

Jon thought about it.  None of the names he'd written down seemed right.  He was missing something.  The answer came suddenly, like a slap in the face. 

_“Chella Blackear was a threat.  Now she isn’t.”_

_“I, for one, would like Walder to kindly explain why he thought it would be better to blow up a gods-damned building rather than pay a few million dragons in hush money.”_

_“This Willas Tyrell problem.  I’ll fix it.  Just like I fixed this entire pointless endeavor to begin with.”_

_“If your humane mousetrap fails, just keep in mind I have no problem dealing with him myself.”_

_There are dozens of district attorneys,_ Jon thought to himself _.  If Willas was taken out, five more would rise to take his place and bring his killer to justice.  Why not just eliminate the problem at the source?  The problem is the rigged election and the source is the president the plot was meant to put in power._

The realization hit Jon like a punch to the stomach.  He winced at his team before speaking.

“I need to tell you all something.”  He took a deep breath, and everyone stared at him expectantly. 

Jon knew that saying what he was about to say not only could put his friends in danger, but it could change his relationship with them forever.  But he didn’t have a choice.  “It can’t leave this room,” he added.  He spoke for several minutes, his associates sitting in stunned silence.

Arya was the first to speak.

“Why didn’t you stop them?”  Jon grimaced when he saw how disappointed she looked.

“I tried.  I tried every argument that I could think of to try to get through to Tyrion.  He wouldn’t listen.”

Satin looked flabbergasted.  “Why didn’t you just tell the president?”

Jon sighed.  “I wanted to.  It would have put her in an impossible situation.  She would have had to turn them all in, or she would have been guilty of conspiracy herself.  I thought that I could convince them, make them see reason.  I failed.”

Arya narrowed her eyes.  “Now you’ve made _us_ conspirators.”

Jon covered his mouth with his hand and closed his eyes.  “Yes,” he said quietly.  “It’s the last thing I wanted to do.  But I don’t have a choice anymore.  If I’m right, there’s nothing stopping him from trying again.  I need your help.”

Sam had tears in his eyes; his voice was shaking as he spoke.  “He killed Chella?”

Jon hung his head.  “Yes.”

Sam jumped out of his seat.  “He killed Chella and _you_ and Lannister, Redwyne, and Martell _let him get away with it_?”

Jon pressed his lips together and nodded.  “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“He killed my girlfriend!  He stole my life!  And you all did _nothing!”_

Sam turned to Sandor.  “It was you, wasn’t it?  You drugged me in Gulltown.  I was watching the news about the explosion, and the next thing I knew, I was in hotel room in King’s Landing with a headache.  A new identity all laid out for me.”

Sandor looked at Sam but said nothing.  Sansa, Arya, Robb, and Satin all looked at Jon in horrified disbelief.  Jon capped his marker and put it in his pocket.  “Sam, none of us had any idea Frey was going to do what he did.  He didn’t even warn us that Chella had demanded more money.  If he had, there’s no way I would have allowed him to hurt her.  Trystane would have paid her whatever she asked.  As soon as I heard about the explosion and that the police were looking for you, I sent Sandor to get you.”

Sam shook his head vigorously, not wanting to hear any of it.  Robb gritted his teeth before speaking.  “You and Redwyne.  You threw Sam’s case, didn’t you?  You wouldn’t tell Rhaenys how you knew Sam was innocent.  Instead, you put pressure on the judge to toss the case.”

“We didn’t put pressure on him.  Olenna asked for a favor.”

Sam collapsed into his chair and buried his head in his arms.  They were all quiet for a long time.

“This is all going to come back to our doorstep, Jon,” Sansa said quietly.  “You know that, don’t you?  Even if you didn’t participate in the vote rigging, you covered it up.  Those fake exit polls – I don’t think it will difficult for Willas to figure out that it was you who ordered them.  He’s already after you over Sam’s trial.  The federal police could bust in our door any moment to arrest Sandor.  This isn’t containable.”

“That’s why we need to find proof now.”

Robb rubbed his forehead in consternation.  “We should get to work, then.”  Everyone nodded, even Sam, who had lifted his head to reveal his eyes were red.  He wiped his face with the back of his hand.  Jon took his marker out and uncapped it once more.  He wrote a final name on the board.

_Walder Frey._

Jon turned to face his team.  His usual confidence, which had taken years to hone, had deserted him.  For the first time in a long time, he felt unsure.  His friends looked back at him quietly.

“I’m sorry.  I know that I’ve let you all down.  I have no excuse.  I could only do what I thought was right.  If I’d made better decisions, maybe things would be different.  Maybe I should have threatened Frey.  Maybe that would have worked, I don’t know.  Maybe if I had kept my relationship with Daenerys professional, I could have worked with Trystane to stop Frey’s plot before it happened.  Maybe I should have just trusted Daenerys to handle things despite the risk to her.  I know that’s what she would have wanted me to do.  Maybe I could have argued better, fought harder, been wiser.  I know I’ve failed you and put you all at risk.  If the answer is no, I can’t blame any of you.  But I have to know if you’re still with me.  I need you all – my friends – more than ever.  We have so many enemies now.  I can’t fight them alone.  I need all of you.  Are you with me?”

Sandor stood.  “Yes.”

Robb and Arya both stood.  “I was with you at Winterfell, and I’m with you now,” Robb said.  His eyes were sad but had no doubt.

Arya sighed.  “Nothing’s changed, Jon.  You know that I’m with you.”

Satin stood.  “I’m with you.”

Sansa stood and walked over to Jon and hugged him.  “I can’t say it wasn’t an epic fuck-up, but you’re my brother.  I’ll always be with you.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut for a moment and stood.  He looked at Jon, his eyes narrowed.  The fierce look seemed incongruous on his kind face.  “Frey burns for this, for what he did to Chella.  Swear to me, Jon.”

“I swear.”

“Then I’m with you.”

***

_Winterfell, 1988 AC_

It was a hot summer day in Winterfell, at least insofar as Winterfell ever could be said to be “hot.”  It was about 70 degrees and the sun was out.  Ned sat on the porch watching Robb chase after Catelyn.  He was too little to be very fast, but at eight months pregnant, Cat wasn’t that quick either. 

He was grateful that he would be here to see his daughter born.  He had missed Robb’s birth, but his discharge from the army a few months after his captivity in the FRNW meant that he wouldn’t miss this next birth or any other important moments in his children’s lives.

A beat-up little gray Isuzu Impulse that appeared to be held together with Bondo and duct tape pulled to the curb and sputtered to a stop as the driver put the car in park.  A woman with long brown hair had her back to him as she unfastened a child from a car seat.  She held the child’s hand and turned to walk towards his house.

“Osha!” Ned exclaimed, recognizing her as she came closer.  “I can’t believe it’s you!”  He ran out to hug the woman who had saved his life.

“I told you that we’d see each other again someday,” she said with a half-smile.

“And who is this little man?” Ned said.  He looked at the gray-eyed, raven-haired toddler.

“This is my son, Jon,” Osha said.  “Jon, say hello to Mr. Stark.”

The boy shook his head and hid behind his mother’s long coat.  She laughed.

“Ned,” Osha said, her voice suddenly serious.  “I had hoped to never need to take you up on your offer to help me.  But now I need to ask.”

“Anything, Osha.”

“My name isn’t Osha,” she said.  Ned looked at her, startled.  “It’s Lyanna Snow.  I couldn’t tell you that two years ago.  Getting you out blew my cover, but I had to follow protocol.  I was never a member of NLF.  I’m with Westeros Military Intelligence.  As you’re a Provincial Representative on the Intelligence Committee, I was able to get special permission to read you in on my mission north of the Wall.  To a limited extent, that is.  But I can at least tell you who I am.  My identity as the woman you met in the Skirling Pass is classified.”

“I understand,” Ned said.

“I’ve been assigned to a new mission,” Lyanna said.  “It’s not particularly dangerous, but they need me.  I tried to convince my superiors to get someone else, but they insisted that it must be me.  I can’t explain why, but it isn’t possible for Jon to come with me.  I need him to be somewhere safe, with someone that I know I can trust.  Will you help me?”

“Of course,” Ned said.  “What about Jon’s father?  Is he…”  Ned trailed off, not wanting to intrude or make Lyanna think that he was unwilling to look after her son.

“Jon, why don’t you go play?” Lyanna said.  She pointed over where Catelyn was swinging Robb around.  It was such a sweet sight that it was impossible for Ned to be irritated that she was doing it, as pregnant as she was.  “That little boy looks like he’s about your age.  Maybe he will want to be friends with you.”

Ned knelt so that he could look at Jon, who had stared at his mother skeptically.  “That’s my son, Robb.  He’s just a little older than you.  Your mom and I are old friends.  I know Robb will want to be your friend too.” 

Jon looked once more at his mother, who smiled and nodded.  Jon ran off towards Robb.

She waited until the boy was out of earshot.  “Jon’s father is dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ned said sympathetically.  “Who was he?”

“William Dustin.”

Ned looked at her in confusion.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“I had to wait until the camp went to sleep that night before we made our escape,” Lyanna explained.  “I stayed in William’s tent.  We talked a while.  One thing led to another.”

“Huh,” Ned said.  “While you were talking with William, did he mention his wife?  They were childhood sweethearts.  He asked her to marry him when they were five.  She said yes.  As unusual as it is for long engagements to work out well, theirs did.  They married when Barbrey turned eighteen.  As long as I knew him, he didn’t go longer than ten minutes without mentioning her.  Surely he must have spoken of her if you spent so much time with him in his tent.”

“He did,” Lyanna allowed.  “But you know how it can be during wartime.  Especially when you think that you’re about to die, as we all did.  He was very sweet.  As wrong as it was, I think we were a comfort to each other.  It’s difficult for me to regret it, since it’s how I have my precious son.  I think, had William lived, that his wife would have forgiven him.  As it is, there’s no need for her to know.  Jon’s birth certificate doesn’t list his father’s name for that reason.”

Ned stared at her, brows furrowed in skepticism.  “Jon does look a bit like him.”

“Ned…” Lyanna said, sighing.  “Someday, I can tell you everything.  Everything about what happened when I was up north.  Not today, though.  The most important thing right now is that Jon is safe.  You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” Ned replied.  “I owe you my life, Lyanna.” 

He led her over to where the boys were playing.  “Lyanna, I want you to meet my wife, Catelyn.  Cat, this is Lyanna Snow.  She brought me to Deepwood Motte three years ago.” 

Catelyn’s eyes went wide.  “It is an honor to meet you, Lyanna.  I can’t thank you enough for returning my husband to me.  Our family is in your debt.”

Ned ruffled his son’s hair as the boys played at their feet.  “Little Jon here is her son.  I’ve told her that we would look after him for a while.”  Ned gave his wife an apologetic look that said _I’ll explain everything later_.

“Jon is welcome here with us as long as you need us to watch over him,” Catelyn said rubbing her belly.  “We’ll treat him like one of our own.”

“Thank you, Catelyn,” Lyanna said.  “That means so much to me.  I’m not quite sure how long it will be.”  She looked at Jon sadly.  “I hope it won’t be too long.”

***

_Winterfell, 2018 AC_

Tyrion had been startled, as had many of Daenerys’ other advisers, when the president informed them all of her first order of business upon being released from the hospital.  Jon wasn’t surprised.  He knew Daenerys very well.  It wasn’t magic how she’d succeeded in politics.  One of her skills was the perfect management of political capital.  Many politicians made the mistake of storing it; others erred by wasting it.  Daenerys understood that while it shouldn’t be wasted, it didn’t keep forever.  Like a hastily wrapped pork chop fallen victim to freezer burn, a chunk of tasty political capital was easily lost to neglect and the passage of too much time.

Accordingly, Daenerys had decided to cash in her sympathy-driven stash of political capital that followed the shooting and travel to Winterfell in person to attend the hearing on Barbrey Ryswell’s motion to remand her frivolous lawsuit back to Winterfell district court.  Tyrion was too smart to say so, but it was clear that he thought it was such a bad idea that perhaps the doctors had been wrong about Daenerys’ head injury being fully healed.  Jon didn’t think it was a bad idea, but he knew that it was a _risky_ idea. 

Politically speaking, it was a bold move.  A personal appearance by the president would show anyone watching that Daenerys didn’t fear the case and had nothing to hide.  It was also designed to intimidate the opposing party and her attorney.  The problem was that courts are not wholly political in nature.  If the gambit failed, Jon wouldn’t be able to bury the story.  The purpose of this stunt was to get as much attention on the case before demolishing it.  That attention would be on them whether they failed or succeeded.

The president’s plane gently kissed the carefully de-iced runway as they landed at Winterfell International Airport.  Daenerys was carefully bundled in the local fashion – a gray and white long fur coat, fur-lined knee-high leather boots, fur-lined gloves, and a bulky black alpaca scarf.  It was beneficial for optics that she wear similar cold-weather clothing to locals, but it would backfire if she was seen to be shivering.  Jon had recommended some discreet but effective thermal base layer pieces for Daenerys to wear underneath her suit.

Daenerys smiled wanly as she looked at her reflection in the long mirror in her cabin.  “Reminds me of being at the Wall.  Remember how badly my teeth chattered?”

“That was during the summer,” Jon said.  “Winter is coming.  Even this far to the south, it’s colder here now than it was at the Wall that day.”  He looked at his phone.  “Weather app says it’s five degrees, but with the wind chill, it’s going to feel like zero or colder.  The temperature will drop another fifteen degrees overnight.”

“Seven hells.”

Jon grinned.  “No place like home.  Don’t let your teeth chatter.  We want these local reporters to see that you’re as tough as a Northerner.  They won’t get their ‘Delicate Southerner Visits Winterfell’ headline.  I won’t have Governor Bolton get the satisfaction of offering you his coat or some such nonsense.”

“I _am_ a delicate Southerner,” Daenerys objected with a laugh.  “If Governor Bolton’s coat is warmer than mine, I’ll have a hard time turning him down.”

“I’d rather have you go naked.”

Daenerys tilted her head and eyed him playfully.  “I don’t doubt that.  Maybe I will go naked, later.  Somewhere warm where you can enjoy it without a bunch of surly Northern politicians enjoying the sight as well.”

Jon’s eyes heated at he listened to Daenerys’ scandalous proposal.  He closed in on her, pushing her scarf down and burying his face against her throat as he snaked a hand under her coat to fondle her ass.

“Maybe I’d like to enjoy it now.”

“We’re deplaning in about three minutes.  You wouldn’t be able to get me out of these layers in twice that time.”

“Are you kidding?  I grew up in the North.  I could get this shit off you in less than thirty seconds.”

Daenerys gasped as he nipped at the sensitive spot under her ear.  “Don’t you dare.  And no hickies, you menace.”

“The scarf will cover it.  Don’t you just love cold weather?”

“No, but I love you.” 

He pressed his lips to hers, intent on kissing her breathless, when there was a sharp knock at the cabin door.

“Madam President, it’s time,” Podrick said.  Tyrion had stayed behind to manage the Red Keep in the president’s absence, so Podrick had come north with Jon to advise the president.  In addition to the Ryswell hearing, a brief meeting with Governor Bolton and a visit to the memorial to the victims of the courthouse bombing had also been arranged for the trip.  Bolton was scheduled to meet them here at the airport and accompany them to the memorial.  The hearing would take place the morning following their arrival; afterwards, they would depart immediately to return to the capital.

Daenerys was the first to climb down the stairs onto the tarmac.  She was followed by Jon, Podrick, Irri, Red Keep aides, and members of the Presidential Guard who had not come ahead as part of the advance team.

Governor Bolton and his wife Walda were waiting on the tarmac to greet them.  He and Daenerys shook hands, followed by Daenerys and Walda.

“Madam President, welcome to Winterfell,” Bolton said.  “It’s a pleasure to have you here in the North.”

“I am happy to return, Governor Bolton,” Daenerys responded politely.  “I had missed the warm and friendly people of the North and have long wanted to return.”

“I was quite distressed to hear of your wounding and am grateful for your recovery.  You have been in my prayers and those of our people.”

“I appreciate that, Governor.”  She turned her attention to Walda Bolton.  “Walda, I’m so happy to finally meet you.  I’ve heard that you’re expecting.  Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Madam President.  It’s going to be a boy.  We’re so excited.  I only wish that Mr. Martell could have joined you.  Please give him our best regards when you return to the capital.”

Daenerys managed not to grimace and instead, smiled warmly.  “He was very sorry not to have been able to come.  His family required him in Sunspear quite suddenly.  I know he would have been happy to meet you.”

Jon doubted seriously that Trystane was sorry to not visit Winterfell or to meet Walda Bolton.  Like most Dornishmen, he wasn’t fond of the cold.  He had departed for Sunspear hours after Daenerys had been discharged from the hospital.  Jon had managed to prevail upon Daenerys to endure a brief photo op with her husband when she returned from the hospital.  It would delay rumors, but not completely quash them.  It would give them time to plan.  Jon doubted the photo op as it had turned out would work as well as he had wanted it to.  Daenerys had managed a brittle smile.  Trystane’s expression had been vacant, as though he had been ordered into exile.  _Which he had_ , Jon reflected.

Daenerys and the Boltons exchanged more pleasantries before the president’s and governor’s respective motorcades departed to visit the memorial.  Jon had seen it before, but in warmer weather.  He was surprised to see that the granite reflecting pool wasn’t frozen over.  The sixty-four engraved names were clearly visible even in the freezing weather.  Jon looked towards the bottom of the list.  _Catelyn Stark, Eddard Stark, Rickon Stark._

Roose Bolton interrupted his quiet reverie.  “It’s heated,” he explained.  “The designers were Southern.  They suggested a pool, and the first thing we all said was ‘what about when it ices over?’  We said it all at once, actually.  Your surrogate brother Bran was there.  The Southerners hadn’t even thought about that – the freezing point of water.  Such a basic thing, and no thought given to it.  What percentage of the time is Winterfell over 32 degrees?”

“Maybe forty percent, give or take.  The average _high_ during winter doesn’t exceed 32 degrees; I know that.”

Roose shook his head disbelievingly.  “These Southern people don’t understand us.  But you do, Jon.  You’re one of us.  I’m glad that you are here to see this.  I never got to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”

“Thank you, Governor Bolton,” Jon said.  “I’ve been here before with my brothers and sisters, but it looks even better now.  The trees have grown.  It looks nice with the snow on the ground.”  Jon had expected to feel a strain in speaking to Bolton, a barely resistible urge to knock him to the ground and force him to admit that he was behind the bombing.  Instead, had no trouble listening to Bolton speak.  Perhaps he could learn something.

“Has there been any progress in the investigation by the federal police?” Bolton asked.

“Very little.  Rayder has gone to ground, as you know.  Most of his associates have as well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.  Please let me know if there’s anything that I can do to help.”

“I’ll do that, Governor.”  Jon noticed that Daenerys was looking their way expectantly.  “Excuse me, the president needs me.”

***

The two presidential guards who normally followed Trystane around when he wasn’t in the Red Keep or with Daenerys sat stoically in their seats as Trystane’s plane departed KLX headed to Sunspear International Airport.  He had established a good rapport with the guards, Gascoyne and Joss, partially on the basis that they both hailed from Dorne.  He had disliked the idea of guards and had insisted on Dornish ones.  As a Martell, he had always been surrounded by security, but not at the ever-present, suffocating level that the Presidential Guard took it to.  Despite that, he normally would engage in small-talk with the two men – ask Joss about his kids or rib Gascoyne about his golf swing.  Today, as he flew away into his exile, he wasn’t in the mood for company and couldn’t endure any chit-chat.  At least they hadn’t given him any grief over wanting to take his own plane rather than one of the president’s fleet.

In a legal, technical sense, Trystane didn’t need his top-notch legal education to know that Daenerys couldn’t force him to leave.  He had been seriously tempted to refuse.  Leaving Nym and Egg behind was like a punch to the gut that never stopped.  Two things had allowed him to stomach abiding by Daenerys’ wishes: one, he knew that Gilly would be there to look after the twins; and two, he knew compliance was the only choice if he hoped to somehow get his wife to change her mind.  He knew how little chance there was that she would take him back.  The best he could reasonably hope for was a stay of execution.  Even knowing all this, he fought to stay in his seat and not barge into the cockpit to tell the pilot to turn around.

At least it would be a short flight.  It was only an hour-and-a-half flight from KLX to Sunspear.  He had asked the flight attendant to pour him three fingers of scotch, but he didn’t want to have any more than that until he got home.  It wouldn’t do for the local press to run video of their returning hero stumbling drunk across the tarmac.  He’d wait to get blackout drunk until he was ensconced at the Water Gardens.  He couldn’t bear the idea of going to his own home in Sunspear.  The only happy times of his marriage had been spent there, as few as they were, and he didn’t want to spoil those memories by spending his exile in his empty house with only his own miserable company and whatever woman who for some reason of her own thought it was worth her time to share it.

Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was the scotch, but somehow Trystane dozed off about thirty minutes after wheels up.  His plush seat may have been comfortable but his memories in the form of dreams were not.

_I have to get out of here, he thought, as he dry-heaved into the sink.  There wasn’t anything more to throw up, but he couldn’t manage to stop.  He had no idea if Daenerys had left or if she was still standing there, watching him rapidly transform into a complete disgrace.  Whenever he thought he was done, the scene replayed in his mind and his stomach flipped again._

_“I hate you!  I wish my father had drowned me at birth rather than sell me to you.”  His mind had spun over the words, hitting him over and over again like blades from a propeller, and the most pressing thought became escape.  He had left his car keys on the counter behind where his wife had been standing.  He had walked her way to pick them up, and she flinched.  She had raised her arms defensively in front of her face as though she had done so many times.  Trystane didn’t doubt that she had.  Daenerys had never admitted it, but he wasn’t blind.  It was obvious to him that Aerys had mentally, physically, and verbally abused his daughter for many years.  But that she had thought that of him –_ him _, not Aerys – made him instantly, violently ill.  He had nearly thrown up on her feet and had just barely maintained his dignity enough to make it to the sink._

 _The worst part was that she was right.  While he would sooner cut off his own hands than use them to hurt his wife or any woman, what she had_ said _was undoubtedly true.  He’d just been too blind to see it until now.  What was an arranged marriage but a sale?  Her father had wanted to be allied by blood to the richest family in Westeros, and his father had wanted to be joined irrevocably with Westeros’ most politically powerful house.  Negotiations had been had, hands had been shaken, and Trystane had purchased a terrified, abused girl to be his wife._

_There are only so many lies a sane person can tell themselves before suspension of disbelief becomes impossible.  For Trystane, that moment of truth was now, facing a sink full of his own vomit.  He hadn’t rescued Daenerys.  He hadn’t spirited her away from her abusive father like a knight from a song.  He hadn’t helped her.  He had bought her._

_He closed his eyes, ran the water for a few minutes to rinse the mess down the drain, and splashed copious amounts of water on his face and in his mouth._

_When he looked up, Daenerys was gone._

Trystane woke suddenly when the landing gear lowered from the plane’s belly with a loud metallic groan.  He looked out the window at the maze of outlying suburbs of Sunspear, hating the sight of his hometown for the first time in his life.  He closed the shade and finished the watered-down remnants of his drink.  He sat impatiently, tapping on his armrest, waiting for the plane to land.  _Not there is anything to do when I get home other than sit around and be miserable_ , he thought.  Ostensibly, he was in Dorne to run for Anders Yronwood’s senate seat, something that at this point, he couldn’t care less about.

Reporters snapped photos of him and shouted questions as he approached his car, but he didn’t really pay attention to them.  Like he had many times before at Daenerys’ side, he merely smiled and waved.  _Smile and wave, smile and wave.  I could be running Martell Corporation with Oberyn, but instead I’m smiling and waving.  Wasting my fucking life._

***

The presidential entourage had reserved the top three floors of Wolfswood Inn, a hotel that couldn’t be considered glamorous by King’s Landing standards, but Jon considered the nicest hotel in Winterfell.  The hotel had the benefit of being located on the edge of the Wolfswood as opposed to downtown, so fewer inconveniences would be encountered by the locals as a result of the presidential visit.  The staff had checked into their rooms; strategy for the next morning’s hearing was discussed at length among the president, her lawyers, and her advisers; and room service had been ordered and devoured by all.  Finally, once the hour had grown late, Jon and Daenerys were left alone in the presidential suite.

Daenerys crossed the room and pulled him into a kiss.  Jon responded to her automatically and was tempted to give into his desire to get her naked and under him.  He knew there was still more work to do, so he broke the kiss to Daenerys’ frustration.

“There’s more business to discuss,” he said at her whine.  “I’d rather get it out of the way now rather than have to circle back to it later.”

“I’m assuming since you waited for everyone else to leave that you mean to discuss my marriage and its imminent demise.”  She shrugged out of her suit jacket and tossed it carelessly on the back of a chair.

“Yes.  This is the first time we’ve really had to speak privately since you were injured.  We need to come up with a strategy.”

“Your current strategy is working well so far.  Trystane running for Yronwood’s senate seat will explain his presence in Dorne for the next two months.”

“Eventually, he’ll have to come back.  Senators spend a fair amount of time in their provinces, but they do have to be in the capital when the senate is in session.  Which is most of the time.”

“That’s assuming that he wins.”

Jon raised an eyebrow and flashed her an irritated look.  “Come on.  A complete dolt of a campaign manager could win a senate seat for a Martell in Dorne, and he has _me_.  I’m a little insulted, honestly.”

“Why _does_ he have you, incidentally?  Why do you care if he wins or loses?”

“You don’t see the value in having your closest political ally in the Senate?  Setting aside whatever personal problems you have with Trystane, that’s what House Martell is.  Your closest political ally.  That’s why we need a strategy.  You need to keep the Martells as allies regardless of what happens with you and your husband.”

“Of course I see the value in it,” she sighed.  She rubbed her temples and started pulling pins from her hair and discarding them on a side table, unraveling braids as they were freed.

“That brings me to you and Trystane.  What’s the endgame look like?  What’s your best outcome?”

“I want a divorce.”

“Okay,” Jon said carefully.  He sat down on a loveseat upholstered in eye-searing plaid and rubbed his lower lip in thought.  “Let’s look at that option.  It’s politically feasible if we’re careful and he cooperates.  We’d either need to do it in two months, or we’d need to wait two years until your reelection campaign is over.  We can’t have a divorce overshadowing your campaign.  If it’s done soon, the fallout will be minimized, but it will still be very damaging.  As your campaign manager, I have to advise you to wait.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall behind her.  “I know what my campaign manager’s advice is.  What’s my lover’s advice?”

“As your lover, I’m not entitled to an opinion.  Your relationship with Trystane isn’t my business.”

“You must think about it.”

“I don’t.”

Daenerys scoffed and crossed her arms.  “You compartmentalize well.  Perhaps too well.  This can’t solely be viewed as a political problem, Jon.  It’s not a political problem at all, in fact.  My father might have forced me to marry Trystane to increase his own political power, but his authority over me ended then, well before I had a political career of my own to consider.  I could have divorced Trystane a long time ago.  I didn’t stay married to him because of politics.  Did you think that I did?”

“I don’t know, Daenerys.  It’s not my business.”

“I’m making it your business.  You should understand.”  She crossed the room to the hotel room’s mini-bar and poured some Arbor Gold into a glass.  She dropped into an armchair and took a sip of her wine before unzipping her boots and pulling them off.  She pulled her legs up to curl up in the chair, tucking her feet under her.

“I never wanted you to see this side of me.  But I think it’s important that you do, so you can understand why I want my marriage to end.  Whether it’s two months from now or two years from now, the issues are the same.  You didn’t know me when I was twenty.  I was incredibly sheltered and naïve.  I was terrified of my father and incurring his wrath.  For a simple defiant look that was completely imagined on his part, I could expect to be back-handed across the face.  To be screamed at, I didn’t need to spout any words of rebellion.  If he told me to do something, I did it unquestioningly.”

“Daenerys...”  His face was pained; the color had drained away.

She waved away his objection and continued.  “I saw a completely different person than others saw.  They saw beloved Crownlands Governor Aerys Targaryen.  I saw a deranged tyrant that would beat me with little or more commonly, no provocation.  When he told me to marry Trystane, I didn’t question him.  When he told me that I was to _give myself to my husband_ , I didn’t argue.  I was terrified and didn’t even fully understand what he meant because I was so sheltered and ignorant.”

Jon gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists without thinking about it until he felt his nails digging into the flesh of his palm.

“You’re probably imagining what happened after the wedding, right?  You look angry.  Horrified, even.”  She raised her eyebrows in question.  She swirled her wine in her glass contemplatively before taking a long swallow.

Jon blew out a breath and relaxed his hands.  “What happened?”  He didn’t want to know, but there was no escaping it at this point.

She waved her hand dismissively.  “I pleaded with Trystane to allow me to comply with my father’s demands.  He reacted much like you are right now.  He was horrified and refused to touch me.  He said that I was his and that I didn’t have to answer to Aerys Targaryen ever again.  That was the truth.  I was free of my father after that.  I was a Martell.  A name that’s both a chain and a shield.  Daenerys Targaryen was a frightened child.  It may not say so on my driver’s license, but in the ways that matter, I am Daenerys Martell.  That’s the woman you met beyond the Wall, the woman you love.” 

“You don’t owe him anything for doing what any decent person would do.”

“I know that.  But it made me think that I could trust him.  In spite of all the terrible things that happened between us later, I still knew I could trust him to protect me.  I hated that I felt that I needed that, and I resented him for it.  But I always thought that I needed that protection, even while insisting otherwise.  Even after Aerys was dead.  That he lied to me about something so life-altering, so critical, made me realize that I _can’t_ trust him.  Not in any way.  I can’t forgive it.  It’s too much.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to forgive him.  What happens next is up to you.  Whatever you decide, I’m on your side.  You know that.  I can help you manage the political fallout, but that shouldn’t be the only consideration.  I’m just trying to give you the best advice that I can.”

“I know that you are.”

They were both quiet for a long time.

“So, let’s have it,” she said.  “Your best advice.  As my campaign manager, my lover, and my friend.  No compartmentalizing.”

Jon took a deep breath.  He knew that whatever his answer was, he’d have to live with the regret for a long time.  But it wasn’t difficult to decide what to say, because there was only one response that he could live with, only one that was right. 

“Wait.  We can negotiate a new arrangement with him.  We’ll work out logistics.  The Red Keep is a big place.  We’ll fix things so that you don’t have to see him unless it’s for an official purpose.  He can do as he likes, and you’re free to do as you like.  After you’re reelected, we can negotiate an amicable divorce if that’s still what you want.  You can maintain your alliance with House Martell and everyone stays friends.”

“You think that’s for the best?”

“I do.  For what it’s worth, I think he truly is sorry.  I know it’s not worth much.  Aside from the political scandal, the alliance is important for your reelection.  I hate to say this, but we have to be practical.  We need him in Dorne.  And I don’t trust Walder Frey.  I should never have let Tyrion and Jaime talk me into allowing him to finance so much of your campaign.”

“You said it was smart.  What changed?”

Jon didn’t hesitate.  He wouldn’t lie to her, but he couldn’t share his suspicions  about the shooting while they were still unfounded.  “Frey is dishonest and unethical.  I don’t trust him.  He wants too much from you for his money.  I know it seemed attractive to bring him on board to keep his money from going to Stannis, but it’s not worth it.  I don’t want to keep him on as a donor.  We should have a full break with him.  If we do that, we’ll need Trystane.”

“You think I wouldn’t have his help it if I filed for divorce now?”

“It’s a risk.  An unnecessary one.  Ideologically, there’s no question that he would support you, divorce or no.  But Trystane is no ideologue.  There’s no telling what he would do.  If we manage to keep him on your side through the campaign, price would be no object.  He could finance every expense out of his own pocket and never notice the cost.  I wish that’s how we’d done it before.”

Her face twisted with disgust.  “So, we’re just using him for campaign money?”

Jon shrugged.  “It’s my understanding that that was Aerys’ motive for arranging the marriage to begin with.  Trystane gets that, I’m sure.  He’s a grown-up.  He knows how the world works.  It’s not like I’m going to lie to him about it.”

She sighed heavily.  “I hate everything about this.  I can see that you’re right, but I hate it.”

Jon got up and walked towards where Daenerys was sitting.  She set down her glass and stood.  When he reached her, he extended his hand towards her face and cupped her cheek, running his thumb over the soft skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“You don’t have to apologize, Jon,” she said, leaning in to his touch.  “You’re only thinking of me, I know that.  You always put yourself last.”

“I won’t sacrifice your accomplishments for my selfish desires,” he said firmly.  “I knew what I was getting into.  Don’t worry about me.”

“I love you, Jon.  Of course I’ll worry about you.”

“I’m serious, Dany.  I know you’re married, I’ve always known.”

She put a finger to his lips.  “I don’t want to talk about my marriage or my husband for another second tonight.  And I think I know how to keep you quiet about it.”

She pressed a lingering kiss to his lips.  When he parted them, she slid her tongue over his.  Jon savored the sharp tang of Arbor Gold from her mouth and nipped at her bottom lip.  She ran her tongue over his teeth and sucked on his tongue.  He trailed wet kisses down her face and the side of her neck, and she moaned when he sucked at the hollow of her throat.  When he released her from his mouth, she bit down on his earlobe and licked it, causing him to shiver.  She pushed his jacket off before attacking his belt, quickly unbuckling it before falling to her knees and unfastening his pants.  Before he knew it, he was bared to her and he gasped in surprise as he realized her intent.

His blood rushed to where Dany wanted it most, and he stiffened as she took him in hand.  He looked down at her, helpless to object.  She looked up at him, her lilac eyes flashing victoriously when she saw his face.  Their eyes met just a second before she extended her tongue to slowly lick the opening at the tip of his cock.

She grabbed his ass with her free hand and squeezed as she licked a line from the base of his cock to the head with the tip of her tongue.

She grinned impishly at him.  “You have the most unbelievably perfect ass, Jon.  Anyone ever tell you that?”  She immediately set to licking him again, not waiting for an answer.

“Uh, I don’t think so, Dany,” he muttered.

She wrapped her hand around him and squeezed his ass again, smirking up at him.  “I doubt that very much.”

He shook his head, thinking idly that he probably couldn’t hold up his end of a conversation about his ass in the midst of having said ass squeezed and his cock stroked.

She chuckled as though she’d read his mind before engulfing him into her hot, wet mouth.  Her other hand freed, she was able to grab his ass with both hands.  Her lips spread lewdly around him, she took him to the back of her throat with every back and forth motion.  He watched her, fascinated, as she worked him over.

He groaned when she squeezed his ass firmly, causing him to thrust into her mouth.  He stroked her hair as she stared up at him, her irises darkened with lust.  She placed her hand over his and pressed down, an unspoken request.

He cursed and tangled his fingers in her unbound hair.  “ _Avy jorrāelan, ñuha dāria,”_ he breathed, moving her head as he wished.  She hummed in approval as he did and moved her hands to his hips, digging her nails in to encourage him to go faster and thrust into her.

Jon’s senses were all overwhelmed as Daenerys continued her assault on him.  When he spoke, his words came out in a jumble, nearly babbled.  _“Gevie riña.  Ñuha gēlenka dāria.”_   Her eyes sparkled in recognition as her lips and tongue slid over him again and again, leaving behind a lewd sheen of saliva that drove him wild to see.  She ran her fingers over the back of his thighs, and he moaned.  _“Sīr sȳz, ñuha Daenērys.  Iksā iā jaesa.”_

 _“Bē konīr,”_ he groaned in warning when he felt he couldn’t hold back anymore.  She fluttered her lashes and hummed in agreement; he hissed in pleasure as she did.  She continued to gaze up at him and his cock swelled in her mouth.  He tripped over the edge with a loud grunt of her name, spurting against the back of her throat as he held her in place and she swallowed him down.

She slowly slid off him, licking her lips lewdly once she released him.  He was breathing hard as he pulled her to her feet.  To her amusement, he nearly stumbled trying to steady her.  He wrapped his arms tightly around her and kissed her deeply, running his fingers through her mussed hair.  His tongue slid against hers, and he could taste himself on her lips.  She answered by carding her fingers through his hair and pulling on it gently as she pressed closer to him.

When she broke the kiss, he was still dazed as he kicked off his shoes, stepped out of his pants, and she led him to her bed.  She shucked off her skirt and blouse, leaving on just the warm base layer to sleep in.  Once they were under the covers together, he started to try and take the rest of her clothes off.  She laughed softly and kissed him on the nose before shaking her head.

“I want you to get plenty of sleep, _ñuhys dārilaros,”_ she said with a crooked grin.  “It’s so late.  You should be well rested for court tomorrow.  My White Wolf needs to be at his most vicious to ensure Ms. Ryswell is properly ravaged.  Otherwise we both wasted a trip.”

“You’re the one I want to ravage,” he protested.

“You’ll get your chance,” she promised.  She gave him a peck on the lips.  “We’ll have time on the way home.  And more after that.  All the time we want from now on, in fact.”

He grumbled but relented when she snuggled next to him and wrapped her arms around him.  He was more tired than he thought, and less than two minutes later, he was asleep.

***

Of his slew of paramours, Mellei was one of the few that Trystane thought might hold some small amount of fondness for him.  He supposed that made sense.  She was paid a six-figure salary to look after his Sunspear residence when he wasn’t in town, and to serve as his personal assistant when he was.  Trystane suspected that being a ‘castellan,’ as she referred to herself, and personal assistant to a man with zero professional responsibilities was not trying work.  It was probably an insult to her considerable intelligence if he were being honest.  Nonetheless, she performed what few tasks were required with easy competence and dry wit.

Mellei was waiting for him when he arrived at the Water Gardens.  She handed him a glass of red wine which he drank while she put together a cheese plate for him.

“How was your flight, Mr. Martell?” she asked, slicing a wedge of soft-ripened Lorathi cheese.

“Dull, but there weren’t any crying babies or assholes taking their shoes off, so I guess I shouldn’t bitch.”

“You really shouldn’t,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting in amusement.  “Though I suppose if you wanted to, I could listen sympathetically.  Pretend to, at least.”

He laughed.  “That’s okay.  I heard if you roll your eyes too hard, they stick that way.  I wouldn’t want that for you.”

She smirked as she cut a piece of aged cheddar into cubes.  “How is Mrs. Martell?”

“On the mend.  She’s on her way to Winterfell with her paramour.”  One of the many things Trystane found charming about Mellei was that she was completely unintimidated by his wife and never failed to refer to her as ‘Mrs. Martell’ whenever they were alone.  She had the tact to call her ‘President Targaryen’ or ‘Madam President’ to her face, not that it made Daenerys hate her any less.

“I’m glad.  I was worried about her.  I thought what you did was so brave.”

Trystane exhaled in exasperation and rolled his eyes.  “Just a reflex action.  I wasn’t thinking.”

She regarded him gently.  “That may be, but I’m sure you would have done the same if you had thought about it.”

 _That’s true enough._ He drained the rest of his wine.  “Let’s keep that between us.  Mrs. Martell would be upset if she thought I did it on purpose.”

Mellei shook her head sadly and added some crackers, a few olives, and sliced peppered salami to the plate.  She slid it across the counter towards where Trystane was half-sitting, half-leaning against a barstool.  He spread some cheese on a cracker as Mellei refilled his wine glass.

“So, what’s this I hear about you being our next senator?”

He scoffed.  “At this point, it’s just an elaborate excuse for me to not be in the capital.  I was a bit more enthusiastic about it before it was a cover for my banishment.”

“Banishment?”

“Mrs. Martell is none too pleased with me at the moment.”

Mellei looked at him incredulously.  “There’s no pleasing her, is there?  Saving her life didn’t impress her?”

He sighed.  “It’s a long story, but I deserve this, believe me.”

Mellei started putting away the cheese and other nibbles.  “I’ll take your word for it, but without knowing any details, I can’t help but hold on to my belief that your wife is the luckiest woman in Westeros.  Even if she’s unimpressed by your money and good looks, you’d think anyone could see how kind you are, how sweet.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow at her and she laughed, holding up her hands in surrender.  “Alright, I’ll shut up about it.  I’ve said my piece.”

Trystane swirled his wine in its glass and took a large swallow of it.  “I appreciate it.  I feel a little better now, honestly.  I came here with the intention of drinking myself into a coma; now I’m thinking maybe just pleasantly drunk will suffice.  You always lift my spirits, Mell.”

“It’s a good thing that I do, because we’re out of grape-flavored Pedialyte.  You’d have to settle for cherry flavor or coconut water, and I know how much that would annoy you.  Also, I should warn you that your father and uncle are going to be here tomorrow.  Governor Martell asked me to see to it that you are not too hungover.”

Trystane groaned.  “Couldn’t they give me an extra day to wallow in self-pity?”

“Apparently not.”

Trystane was not looking forward to explaining his predicament to either his father or Oberyn, but he knew it couldn’t be avoided.  He doubted that they would be happy about the end of his détente with Daenerys following the sex tape debacle.  They would likely be as angry as Daenerys had been about him having kept her fertility status a secret.  They would be apoplectic about the pregnancy, especially his father, for many reasons, not the least of which being that Trystane could have prevented it by simply telling the truth.  It would not be a pleasant meeting.

“I wonder where I’ll go if my father and Oberyn decide to banish me as well,” Trystane mused.  “They’ll be just as angry as Daenerys.”

“I wasn’t before, but now I’m curious about what atrocity you must have committed.  I doubt the esteemed Governor Martell and the Red Viper give a fuck about your social life.”

“Only because they don’t have room to talk.  But you’re right, it’s something else.  You’d be disgusted with me as well.”

“Try me.  Maybe I can help you mollify them.  I have a knack for diplomacy.”

Trystane sighed heavily and relayed the whole sordid tale.  Mellei’s face gradually twisted into a wide-eyed grimace.

“I get why you didn’t tell her at Dragonstone,” she said thoughtfully.  “But I think you probably could have confessed once you got back home.  You should have.  She deserved to know.  You could have cajoled Dayne into vouching for the fact that you didn’t know beforehand.  The threat of an ugly lawsuit and his medical license getting revoked would have likely convinced him.”

He groaned.  “You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m also a little confused about Snow not breaking your pretty face.  It’s my understanding that he’s a scary motherfucker.  Instead, he wants to help you get elected.  Was he hit on the head or something?”

“You’re not helping.”

“Fine,” she said with an exaggerated eye roll.  “Here’s my considered, diplomatic advice as your castellan and friend: tell them everything, offer a heart-felt mea culpa, and accept the inevitable tongue-lashing.  Making excuses and arguing with them will only make it worse.  If Snow is level-headed enough to not kill you, he can probably mitigate this disaster for you and get his paramour to see reason.  She has every right to be angry with you, but she’s a practical person.  She’d probably like to be reelected; for that, she’ll need you.  I imagine some new arrangement can be made.”

“Not as advantageous as the previous one.  That’s what my father and Oberyn will be pissed about.”

“The previous arrangement wasn’t tenable.  I don’t know why they thought it would be.”

“You’re right.  I tried to tell them that, but I was in a poor negotiating position and Oberyn knew it.  As much love as he has for his family, nothing stands between him and getting his way.”

“Good thing for all you Martells that he’s like that.  Annoying trait in an uncle, but a financially advantageous one for a CEO and his shareholders,” she said as she pulled a cork from a new bottle of wine and filled his glass once more.  “It won’t be pleasant, but you’ll get through it.  You’re their family.  They’re not going to ‘banish’ you.  They just need to yell at you.  They must know how hard being in this marriage has been for you.  No one else in your family has an arranged marriage.  They all benefit from it, but you’re the only one suffering.”

“And Daenerys, of course.”

“Of course,” she allowed.  “It’s just you and Daenerys suffering for the grand Martell-Targaryen alliance.  They should cut you a bit of a break for that.”

He covered his face with his hand.  _If it’s bad enough for Mellei to refer to Daenerys by her name, I’m really in for it tomorrow.  My paramour is sympathizing with my wife, and my wife’s paramour is probably the only person who would think to help me out of this mess.  Fuck._

Mellei came around the counter and put her arm around him.  “It’s not as bad as you’re thinking, Trystane.  You know I’m on your side, right?”

“Yeah,” he muttered.  _It’s much worse than I thought if Mellei is calling me by my first name with all her clothes on.  I’m dead._

“I know what you need,” she said soothingly.  “You need pampering.  Go wait for me on the terrace while I get some lotion to rub your feet.”

He smiled at her weakly.  “I don’t deserve you, Mellei.  Truly, I don’t.”

She laughed.  “I know.”  She waved in the direction of the terrace, shooing him away.

Hours later, he slipped into sleep, Mellei’s naked body draped over him.  But his thoughts as he fell asleep were of Daenerys, and he dreamed again.

_He dried his hands and plucked his keys off the counter and ran out to his car.  He started the ignition and drove a mile or so before he realized he couldn’t see clearly.  His heart was pounding, and his hands were shaking.  He pulled to the side of the road and put the car in park without bothering to turn it off.  He tried to gasp for breath but couldn’t manage to exhale enough to make room for fresh air.  It took him a moment to realize that the reason he couldn’t see was because he was crying.  The small amount of air he could get was wasted on pained sobs.  He felt a stabbing pain in his chest and realized he was having a heart attack.  He was going to die on the side of the road in his stupid, overpriced car.  He let his head fall on the steering wheel, put his hands over his ears, and continued to sob while he waited for it to happen._

_He heard a soft knock on the window, raised his head, and saw that nearly forty minutes had passed.  Looking toward the window, he saw the concerned face of his personal assistant, Deria.  He opened the car door and Deria stood next to him, looking him over for a sign of injury._

_“Mr. Martell?  Are you alright?”_

_He didn’t trust himself to speak so he merely shook his head._

_“I was on my way to your house to drop off your dry-cleaning and saw your car.  I thought maybe you’d run out of gas.  Do you need help?”_

_He took a shaky breath, thought about answering, but instead just nodded his head._

_“Here, why don’t you get out, and I’ll drive you home.”_

_He shook his head vigorously.  “No,” he choked out.  “I can’t go home.  There’s something wrong with me.  I can’t go home.”_

_She nodded and replied calmly.  “You’re just having a panic attack.  You’re going to be fine.  If you can’t go home, let me take you somewhere.  I’ll drive you.”_

_He considered what she’d said and realized that she must be right.  He got out of the car.  Traffic whizzed by in a blur, the palm trees in the road’s median swayed despite the still air, and he felt faint.  He steadied himself as he got in the passenger side and Deria sat in the driver’s seat, moving the seat forward and adjusting the mirrors._

_“Where to, Mr. Martell?”_

_“Water Gardens,” he said quietly.  He let his head fall against the window next to him and didn’t speak for the twenty minutes it took Deria to drive to the retreat._

_Thankfully, no one had was there when he and Deria arrived to see his meltdown.  It was bad enough that Deria had seen it herself.  She was good PA, but she had only been working for him a few months.  He didn’t know her all that well._

_He sat on the terrace looking out at the ocean.  She brought out a glass of ice water and handed it to him.  He mumbled a thank you to her and took a sip._

_“Is there someone you’d like me to call for you?”_

_He shook his head._

_“Would you like me to stay with you?”_

_He nodded.  “Please.”_

_She sat down on the end of one of the lounge chairs and remained quiet._

_“I’m sorry you had to see that.  Thank you for helping me, Deria.”_

_“It’s no trouble, Mr. Martell.”_

_“Since you’re nursing me through what seems to me like a nervous breakdown, why don’t you call me Trystane?”_

_She smiled.  “I don’t think you’re having a nervous breakdown, Trystane.  My mother is agoraphobic and has had many panic attacks; that’s how I know one when I see it.  It will pass.  You just need to try to relax.”_

_“Maybe.  Or it could be that I’m losing my mind.  As frightening as that seems, it’s almost a relief.  If I did lose my mind, this nightmare would be over.”_

_She looked at him sympathetically.  “I don’t mean to pry, but you can talk to me about it if you want.  Maybe it would help.”_

_He sighed.  “I wouldn’t want to burden you more than I already have.”_

_“It’s not a burden.  You’re the nicest boss I’ve ever had.  If you go crazy, I’ll have to find a new job.  Most people who need a PA are bastards.  It’s in my interest to help you.”_

_He laughed weakly._

_“See?  You’re already getting better.”_

Trystane woke up, his head pounding.  It was still dark.  Mellei had left a bottle of ibuprofen, saltine crackers, and an ice bucket with a bottle of cherry Pedialyte nestled in it next to the bed.  Most of the ice had melted, but it was still cold.  He swallowed three ibuprofen, choked down two crackers, and drank a few gulps of Pedialyte before walking out onto the terrace.  _Deria,_ he mused. _She was the first.  I wonder what ever happened to her?_ She had been his PA for a year before being promoted to a supervising corporate paralegal position and relocating to the Starfall office.  He had lost touch with her a few years before when she moved to the Riverlands with her new husband.

Trystane leaned against the railing and sipped more Pedialyte as he looked out at the black waves lap at the moonlit shore.  He tried to figure out why he was losing sleep over Daenerys after all these years.  In a very real sense, their marriage had ended that day he had helplessly sat in his car on the side of the road, waiting to die.  At least that was how he saw it.  It wasn’t that he never tried again, but it was in the useless fashion of giving CPR to a lifeless body because you want so much for it to succeed, for that next breath of life to come.  He often had to struggle to quiet the voice telling him that there was no point.

He recalled that it had been Deria who had helped him work that out, after a fashion.  He had claimed illness and stayed at the Water Gardens for a week, working remotely during the day and fucking Deria at night.  When he had returned home, he’d resolved to have a calm, productive, adult discussion with Daenerys and come to a peaceful understanding with her.  It had gone as well as one might expect.

_She was sitting at her desk outlining a case.  He knocked on the open door of her office.  She looked up, took her headphones out, and eyed him dispassionately.  He smiled at her politely._

_“Hi, Daenerys.  I don’t want to disturb you, but I’d like to talk to you when you have a moment.”_

_She pulled her hair back into a clip.  “Now is as good a time as any.”_

_He sat down in an armchair and she swiveled her chair to face him._

_“I’ve been doing some thinking since we last spoke last week and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been very unfair to you.  My expectations for our marriage have been unreasonable.  I’d like to take some steps to correct that, if you’re amenable.”_

_She heaved a sigh.  “Trystane, I’m sorry about what I said.  The stress from going to school and mood swings from these hormone shots are making me crazy.  I don’t know why I reacted the way I did.  I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”_

_He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, guilt blooming in his gut.  He pushed it aside because he knew that it wasn’t relevant to solving this problem.  They were well past the stage where such feelings were meaningful.  “I appreciate that.  I’m sorry that I upset you.  That being said, this isn’t an isolated incident.  These confrontations that we’ve been having predate the hormone treatments, although I do recognize how difficult that has been for you.  It hasn’t been easy for me to accept, but I realize that you’re deeply unhappy with me and have been for some time.  That’s not your fault.  I want you to be happy.  When we met, I wanted to help you.  I thought us marrying would do that.  It was obvious to me and my father what Aerys is.”_

_“Trystane…” she started to object but trailed off._

_“It’s okay.  We don’t need to talk about it.  I know that isn’t something you like to do.  I only bring it up because last week, it became clear to me just how much physical abuse was involved.”_

_“I’m sorry,” she said again, her eyes downcast._

_“You don’t need to be sorry, Daenerys.  It’s not your fault.  My point is that I was wrong.  I didn’t help you.  This situation isn’t helping you.  It’s not healthy for either of us.”_

_She lifted her head, schooling her face into impassivity.  “You mentioned corrective steps you’d like to take.  Can we get to that?”_

_He took a deep breath.  “I think it would be best if we separated.  Our respective families can still have the marriage and alliance that they wanted, but you and I can stop torturing each other.  We can continue the IVF treatments if that’s what you want.  We’ll buy a separate house here in Sunspear for you to live in.  Once we do that, you can do whatever it is that you want.  Find someone who makes you happy or at the very least, have some distance from the one making you miserable.”_

_Her face twitched, and she lifted a skeptical eyebrow at him.  “Is this your roundabout way of saying you’ve spent the last week fucking another woman?”_

_“I was getting to that, but yes,” he replied calmly.  “It’s something that I’ve decided on for myself.  I apologize for not discussing it with you in advance, but I think it’s the best thing for both of us.  Obviously, you don’t have to, but I think you should have that freedom as well.”_

_Her nostrils flared and the skin in her forehead grew taut.  “How could you do this to me?”  Her voice continued to grow louder as she spoke.  “You disappear for a whole week without so much as a by-your-leave and come back calmly and unapologetically suggesting that I fuck some random person because that’s what_ you’ve _decided to start doing?”_

_“I couldn’t exactly give you any ‘by-your-leave,’ could I?  I was too distracted trying to process the fact that my wife not only hates me, but also thinks I’m a human trafficker and a wife-beater!  I might have said something if you had waited until I was finished rinsing away my own vomit, but you had already gone off to do whatever it was you felt like doing.  You clearly do not give a single, solitary fuck about me.”_

_She was yelling now.  “Now you expect me to feel sorry for you?  What the fuck is wrong with you?  You spend a week in bed with a whore and come back crying because I didn’t hold your hair back while you barfed?  You know what, get your slut to do it for you.  I don’t care.”_

_As much as he hadn’t wanted to, he found himself yelling back.  “I know you don’t fucking care!  You think I didn’t know that? Is it so surprising to you that I would want to be with someone who doesn’t constantly look at me with hatred?  Who doesn’t flinch if I come near her?  You don’t care if I live or die.  I thought that I was literally dying that day after I left.  Maybe I would have if someone hadn’t come along to help me.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  To be permanently free of my useless presence?  The merry widow.  Wouldn’t that be nice for you and your gold-digging psychopath of a father!”_

_She scoffed.  “My father warned me that you and your family were a bunch of degenerates.  I don’t know why I’m surprised.  I should have known that you’re nothing but trash.  It’s true, that old saying, isn’t it?  The rich just have more money.  You can put lipstick on a pig, but that doesn’t turn it into a peacock.  It’s still a pig, just like you.  That’s what you are.”_

_“I don’t give a fuck what you think I am.  If you really want to know, I’ll tell you.  I’m lonely, miserable, and on the brink of losing my mind.  If you want to call that being a pig, or degenerate, or trash, go ahead.  What did you expect, Daenerys?  I tried, I really did.  What did I get for my trouble?  Nothing.  Nothing!  You’re never anything but cold to me, ever.  A gods damned ice princess.  Our marriage is a complete joke.  Why do you even care what I do?”_

_He got up and walked away, knowing that he’d failed.  Not thirty minutes after returning home, he was leaving again._

Trystane finished his Pedialyte and his musings and returned to his bed.  Mellei murmured softly in her sleep and curled up against him.  He gently moved a curl that had fallen in front of her face behind her ear.  He reflected that even though this was the closest he would ever come to having a woman care for him, eventually she would leave him to find something real with someone else.  Something he’d never have.  He missed the part of himself that would have been sad about that, once.

***

Mya wasn’t fond of her home province of the Vale.  She had moved to the Crownlands right after graduating from high school.  She enrolled at Blackwater Community College, transferred to KLU after two years, then began law school at KLU.  She was months away from graduation.  Although she had studying that she needed to be doing, she had agreed to Willas’ plea that she fly to Gulltown and dig for evidence about the election rigging plot.

The Vale was one of the few places in Westeros that still clung to the notion that bastards were sinful by nature.  As ridiculous as it was, the stuffy old biddies of the Eyrie persisted in their old-fashioned opinions and looked down their noses at Mya.  It didn’t help that Mya’s last name was Stone, which was the traditional name of high-born bastards in the Vale. 

When Mya had told her high school guidance counselor that she planned to become an attorney, the counselor had openly discouraged her, insisting that she be “practical” and consider secretarial school or earning a paralegal certificate.

_“Why would that be practical, Miss Coldwater?  Is my 4.0 GPA and 1390 SAT score not sufficient to ensure my acceptance at a university?”_

_“I don’t want you to be disappointed, dear.  You are very bright, but that’s not the only factor that contributes to your future success.  I’m only trying to help manage your expectations.”_

_“I’m very grateful for the excellent education that I’ve received here.  Otherwise, I probably would never have learned, for example, such important events in Westerosi history as when in 302 AC, King Aegon VI Targaryen abolished the use of bastard names, granted illegitimate children the right to either of their parent’s family names, and codified equal rights of inheritance for both natural sons and natural daughters.  Can you believe that was only 1,708 years ago?  Time flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it?”_

_“Miss Stone, I will not tolerate disrespect in this school.”_

_“I apologize, Miss Coldwater.  No disrespect was intended.  I appreciate your guidance, and your suggestions regarding my further education have been noted.  Nonetheless, I do plan to attend college, receive a bachelor’s degree, and go to law school.  If I fail, I suppose I’ll have to live with the disappointment.  I wouldn’t say that you didn’t warn me.”_

Mya wasn’t sure if Miss Coldwater still worked as a guidance counselor at her former school, but she hoped so.  She fully intended on sending her an invitation to her graduation ceremony.

She stopped her rental car in front of a neatly maintained condo complex in a quiet neighborhood just outside downtown Gulltown.  Every person who lived here at the time of the bombing had been interviewed several times by the police, but the police hadn’t been investigating the same crime that Mya was investigating.  Perhaps she could learn something new.

Part of Willas’ plan had been to disarm the people she would speak with by appealing their natural preference for people from their own province.  Valemen might dislike bastards, but they liked people from outside their mountains even less.  She knocked on the first door, reminding herself to ham up her natural Vale accent.

Mya didn’t see any reason to lie about her name.  “Mya Stone” was an incredibly common name in Westeros, especially in the Vale.  When she gave her name, the middle-aged woman who had opened the door regarded her with polite interest.

She had a whole cover story planned.  She was a grad student at KLU, originally from the Eyrie, studying for her master’s in communications.  Her capstone project was a true crime podcast about the Gulltown Bomber, and she wanted to interview people who had known him.  Willas did not want anyone knowing he was working on the case, and they both thought people would be more comfortable speaking with a student.

The plan seemed to work, because the woman was amenable to speaking with her and even to being recorded.  She introduced herself as Rowena and invited Mya inside and asked her to have a seat on the couch.  Several bird cages decorated the small living room, each one containing a pair of parakeets.

“I told both the detectives and the federal police at the time I didn’t think there was any way that Dickon could have blown up that building,” Rowena said adamantly.  “I lived next to Dickon and Chella for two years.  Two people couldn’t have more different or more in love.  That boy would have sooner thrown himself from a sky cell before harming a hair on Chella’s head.  He wouldn’t have harmed anyone.  He was shy, soft-spoken, and gentle.  It would have been hard for me to believe he was a lawyer except that he’s so smart.  Let me ask you this: how does such a smart lawyer send a bomb to his girlfriend’s workplace with his own return address on it?”

“Can you tell me about Chella?”

“Certainly.  She was ferocious, independent, outspoken, and ambitious.  She often complained about her job and said that she wanted to start her own software company.  She didn’t like her bosses at Skytech and would usually tell me stories about them.  ‘Idiot Number One and Idiot Number Three botched all the code for the update we’re working on.  Now they want me to fix it and are complaining about how long it’s taking.  Well, idiots, if you had done it right the first time, it would have taken _no_ time to fix and I could be doing something that would make the company money.’”

“Did she say anything about her plans to start her own company?”

“A little.  A few days before the explosion, she said that she was expecting to come into some money and that once she did, she was going to ‘rage quit Skytech Jerry Maguire-style and take the few intelligent employees they have’ with her.”

“Where was the money she was expecting to get supposed to come from?”

“She never said.  But she hinted that it would be a lot of money.  She told me that she had been paid a lot for a side-job a few months before, but she thought she’d been shafted and that it wasn’t enough for her to launch her start-up.”

“Did any of the police investigating the bombing ask about any of this?”

“Hmm.  No, not that I can recall.  They mainly wanted to know about Dickon.  They asked me if I knew about the affair Chella was allegedly having with a coworker, but I didn’t know anything about that.  I never believed that was true.  It didn’t seem like Chella at all.  She was crazy about Dickon.”

“What can you tell me about Chella and Dickon’s political views?  Was it something they spoke of?”

“Dickon didn’t talk about politics that much.  I asked him once who he was voting for in the last presidential election, and he said that he didn’t usually vote, but he was going to vote for Senator Targaryen.  He was a big admirer of Jon Snow.”

“What about Chella?”

“After the election, I mentioned I was optimistic about President-elect Targaryen and that it was nice we’d finally have a female president.  Chella just smirked and said ‘you’re welcome,’ which I thought a little strange, but Chella herself was a bit strange.  I assumed that she meant she had voted for President Targaryen or donated to her campaign.”

“Did you have any cause later to think she may have meant something else?”

“She went on a tirade one day about how all politicians were crooks and liars.  I asked her about President Targaryen specifically since it had seemed like she liked her.  Chella scoffed and said, ‘who, Walder Frey’s little bitch?  She’s the biggest crook of them all.’  Dickon was there with her and he just shook his head in that way of his whenever Chella was being crazy.”

“Did Dickon or Chella ever mention Walder Frey in any other context?”

“No, not that I recall.”

“Do you know if Chella had any connections with anyone from the Targaryen campaign, like Trystane Martell, perhaps?”

“She never said anything about any Martell.  Other than the president and Frey, she never said anything about any of them.  Dickon works for Jon Snow now, of course, but it’s my understanding that came to be sometime after the explosion at Skytech.”

“Right.  Well, you’ve been very helpful, Miss… you know, I didn’t get your last name.”

Rowena laughed.  “Stone.  I’m always happy to help a fellow Stone.  Good luck on your school project, Mya.”

 _Well that explains it,_ Mya thought.  She thanked Rowena again and tried several more people in the condo complex.  While most were polite, none were as forthcoming as Rowena had been.  She called Willas and related her findings to him.

“I’ll keep digging around here, but I do have a class tomorrow,” Mya said.

“That’s fine.  This interview with the Rowena Stone is enlightening.  It confirms our theory about the Frey/Blackear connection.” 

“If only we could talk to Tarly.”

“That’s a dead-end.  We don’t have any leverage to use with him now that the case has been tossed, and there’s no way he’d roll over on Snow.”

“I know you’re right about Tarly, but perhaps we’re overestimating the loyalty the other members of JSA have to Snow.  It’s very unlikely that they know about election rigging.  He would have insulated them from it.  JSA didn’t even exist when it happened.  Why make them conspirators now?  Maybe your connection with Sansa Stark could help.  What if you told her everything?  Maybe we could turn her.”

“It’s a big risk.  If it fails, he’d know everything about our investigation.”

“The guy’s got eyes everywhere.  He probably knows what we’re up to already.”

“JSA are his eyes, and like you said, they probably don’t know.  But it’s worth considering just based on the possible pay-off.  I’ll think about it.”

***

“All rise for the Honorable Cley Cerwyn.”  Everyone in the small, dimly-lit courtroom obeyed the bailiff’s instructions.

Jon reflected how it was funny how different courtrooms looked in real life as opposed to TV.  TV courtrooms were always large, with room for two hundred or more spectators.  Lavishly appointed, the TV courtroom expressed the dignity of the legal process by its mere appearance.

Department W85 of the Winterfell Federal Court was nothing like a TV courtroom but was like many real ones Jon had seen.  There were twenty folding seats for people to watch the proceedings.  A jury box with twelve cramped seats sat empty.  Two plain wooden counsel tables sat in front of the bench; one for the plaintiff, and one for the defendant.  The judge sat behind the bench, staring at a computer screen.  A floral arrangement peeked out from the niche cut out in the bench for the clerk, a small balloon wishing ‘Happy Nameday’ jutting out from the top.  Behind her, a dry erase board with the court’s calendar hand-written in colorful marker hung on the wall.  The court reporter, judicial assistant, and bailiff each had small desks to the side of the clerk or in front of the bench.  The seal of the Republic of Westeros hung on the wall behind the bench accompanied by both the flags of the North and of the Republic.  The general appearance was more like a window-less office rather than a courtroom.  The room itself was only a little larger than Jon’s living room.

Daenerys had hired local counsel for the matter but had asked Jon to handle this hearing.  The Winterfell lawyer sat at the defendant’s counsel table next to Jon, and Daenerys sat on his other side.  Barbrey Ryswell and her attorney sat at the plaintiff’s counsel table.

Judge Cerwyn cleared his throat before speaking.  “Please be seated.  In the matter of Ryswell versus Targaryen, counsel, please state your appearances for the record.”

Ryswell’s lawyer stood.  “Good morning, your honor.  Ronnel Stout appearing on behalf of plaintiff Barbrey Ryswell, who is present.”

Jon stood up next.  “Good morning, your honor.  Jon Snow and my co-counsel Owen Norrey appearing for defendant Daenerys Targaryen, who is present.”

Judge Cerwyn peered at his screen once more.  Jon saw that he was completely unmoved by the presence of the president in his courtroom.  _Just two litigants, not unlike any others.  Just another normal day in Department W85.  Except it’s the clerk’s nameday.  Probably pizza and cake in judge’s chambers later.  Gods damn it._ “So, it looks like we’re here on plaintiff’s motion to remand to district court.  Is that right, Mr. Stout?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“And Mr. Snow, it looks like there is also a motion for change of venue pending as well.”

“That’s correct, your honor.”

“Well, if both parties are willing to stipulate to such and counsel are ready to argue it, I’d like to advance the motion for change of venue _sua sponte_ and hear both motions today.  This matter has been kicked out several times, and I’m sure everyone concerned would like this case adjudicated in a timely manner.”

“President Targaryen would be willing to stipulate to that, your honor,” Jon said.

Stout whispered in his client’s ear and after a moment, she shrugged.  “Ms. Ryswell would so stipulate, your honor.”

“Excellent.  It is so ordered.  We’ll reconvene on both issues this afternoon at 1:30, and in the meantime, I’d like the parties to meet regarding the possibility of settlement.”

“Yes, your honor,” Jon and Stout both said, one after the other.

“Court is adjourned.”

***

Oberyn Martell had the decency to wait until late morning before calling on his nephew at their family redoubt.  He noted with satisfaction that Trystane’s ever-faithful castellan had heeded his brother’s requests.  Trystane looked a bit peaked, but nothing serious.  He was coherent, and that was all that was required for this intervention.

At the last moment, Doran had decided to send Oberyn to see to this task and refrain from attending himself.  After talking with Mellei, they had decided on a soft touch.  The girl was right – they had asked much of Trystane while giving up nothing themselves.

_“Governor, I hope you will go easy on Mr. Martell.  I don’t think he likes to let on how difficult his relationship with Mrs. Martell is, how difficult it always has been.  He loves her, and she despises him.  It’s so unfair.  You know how gentle he is.  I’m sure whatever it is, he did his best.”_

Oberyn had been there with the call on speaker, and convinced Doran that he could handle things himself.  Trystane would only go on the defensive with his father there, and that would solve nothing.  This problem needed to be handled, and Oberyn was practical enough to see that Trystane’s paramour had a point.

_“If you think this is the best way to handle it, then fine.  But I want us to be clear on your mission.  Find out what happened and straighten the boy out.  Because what it sounds like is that he’s come back here like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs.  I won’t have it.  He’s my son.  He’s a Martell.  We have an agreement with House Targaryen and I expect them to hold up their end.  Whatever has Daenerys angry is irrelevant.  If she wants our money and our support, then she needs to honor the deal we made with Aerys.”_

_“I agree with you.  We didn’t entertain Baelish’s proposal because she’s family.  If she wants the benefits of an alliance with us, she needs to remember that.  There’s too much money at stake to roll over on account of some lover’s spat.”_

Trystane himself likely wasn’t aware just how lucrative the alliance with House Targaryen had been.  Doran had wanted it to increase House Martell’s national political cachet, but it had had the side effect of opening the door on many business deals, particularly in the last two years.  All Trystane would know was the uptick in value of his considerable Martell Corporation holdings on the quarterly reports he received.  It wasn’t a strict blind trust in a legal sense, but Daenerys’ position required Trystane disengage from the corporation’s operations for propriety’s sake.  He likely had no idea how many billions of dragons his unhappy marriage had made for the family.

Oberyn hugged Trystane and kissed Mellei on both cheeks.  The castellan left to prepare coffee and pastries for them while they settled on the terrace.  They chatted and caught up for a few minutes.  Oberyn felt a bit a sympathy for his nephew.  He looked anxious, as though he was waiting for a piano to fall on his head.

“I thought my father was coming as well,” Trystane said after a while.

“You can thank your paramour for his absence,” Oberyn said.  “She interceded on your behalf.  He would like to see you at some point, though.  He misses you.”

“I didn’t ask her to do that.”

“Mellei does as she wishes; you know that.  She’s very protective of you.”

Trystane scoffed.

“You should do something nice for her,” Oberyn continued with a smirk.  “Maybe buy her a gift.  Perhaps a diamond necklace instead of the usual pearls.”

Trystane pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.  “She would look beautiful in either,” he said finally.

Oberyn heard the girl laughing behind them as she returned with a tray of coffee, croissants, and plums.

“Mr. Martell, I’m surprised at you,” she mock chided him.  “I would have thought the CEO of Martell Corporation would have more dignity than to make such coarse jokes.”  She set the tray on the table and faced him with her arms crossed.

He held up his hands in surrender and laughed.  “I just wanted to make sure my nephew showed you the appreciation you deserve.”

She winked at Trystane.  “He always does.  But I’m a woman of simple tastes.  I’d prefer the pearls to the diamonds.”

Trystane coughed and sputtered as he nearly choked on the coffee he had been in the process of swallowing.  “Mell,” he managed after a moment.  “Perhaps we can discuss this matter later, just the two of us?”

“Certainly, Mr. Martell,” she said politely.  “I’ll leave you two _gentlemen_ to it.”  She flashed them both a crooked grin before walking away.

Oberyn sighed.  “Would that I had discovered that delightful woman before you.”

Trystane snorted and waved his hand dismissively.  “Feel free to try your luck with her if you wish.  I don’t insist she keep to my bed.  I don’t keep to hers.”

“I suppose if you’re not possessive over your wife, why would you be over your paramour?”

“That’s right.  You can try your luck with Daenerys too, for all I care.”

He whistled.  “I’m afraid that I’ll have to pass on that offer, nephew.  No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Speaking of Daenerys…”  Oberyn could see Trystane inwardly groan.  “I suppose we should get into it.  What happened?”

Trystane sighed.  “I really fucked up.  I’m sorry.  Daenerys is well within her rights to throw me out.”

“One would think she’d be grateful to you.”

“One would be incorrect.”

“I know we’ve already discussed how beneficial it is for our family for you and Daenerys to remain wed.  I appreciate that it’s unpleasant for both of you.  I’d like to understand and offer whatever help I can.”

“I kept something from her for many years, something that I had no right to keep secret.  She learned the truth in the worst possible way.  It was an inexcusable betrayal; I realize that.”

“Why did you conceal the truth?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”  He didn’t, really.  But considering how much money was at stake, he’d have to make the time.

Trystane sighed.  He spoke in a matter-of-fact way, sounding tired.  “After Daenerys and I married, the thing she wanted most was a baby.  At first, I thought it was that her father had demanded it, but that wasn’t it.  It’s what she wanted.  Naturally, I wanted to give her whatever I could that would make her happy.  After a year of no success, she became more and more depressed.  I suggested we see Gerold.  He has a great reputation as an RE and I thought I could count on his family’s friendship with ours to keep things discreet.  He told both of us that Daenerys was infertile, and we’d need IVF.  So, that’s what we did.  After the diagnosis, things began to rapidly disintegrate between us.”

“I remember.”

“I didn’t blame her, but she couldn’t understand that.  She would barely speak to me unless we were arguing about something.  Any little thing became a fight.  I began to stay away, which only made her angrier.  The hormone treatments made things much worse, although I didn’t have the sense to understand that at the time.  I took things personally that I probably shouldn’t have.  Despite the problems we were having, she was adamant about forging ahead with the implantations.  We tried three times.  Finally, when Gerold told her that she’d miscarried the last of our embryos, she decided to leave me.  She went back home to Dragonstone.”

“This part is news to me, that she left.  Why didn’t you say anything to anyone?”

“What was I supposed to say?  It was a complete fuck up.  I really couldn’t blame her for leaving.  I’d already told her weeks before that I wanted to separate.  She was furious when I told her I’d been seeing Deria.  When she got the call from Gerold, I could tell what he’d told her by the look on her face.  I was so disgusted with myself; I’d failed her in every possible way.  I knew I was about to completely lose my shit and start crying my eyes out like a fucking jerk, so I left.  I couldn’t stand the idea of her seeing me like that.  That was a huge mistake, of course.  When I came home to find her gone, I saw she’d left her wedding ring on my desk.  It was at that most inopportune moment that I realized that I loved her.  I can appreciate how stupid that must sound to you.”

“It sounds like the kind of tragic thing that might happen to my twenty-seven-year-old fool nephew.”  _Who is as much of a fool as ever,_ he diplomatically did not say.

“Right.  Well, despite that, I decided to let her go.  She was so unhappy.  I didn’t think it was right to make her stay on account of my feelings that had come too late.”

“Understandable.”

“Then Gerold called me and said that the lab made a mistake.  Daenerys was pregnant.  I knew I had to go after her.  I didn’t even think about it; I just got in my car and started driving.  I decided that I would do things right and be a good husband to her.  When I got to Dragonstone, I told her that I loved her and begged for forgiveness.  She didn’t forgive me, of course, she never did, but she agreed to come home.  I was too afraid that she’d leave me again to tell her the truth.”

“What’s the truth?”

“When Gerold called, he also admitted that he’d lied to us about the initial test results.  Daenerys isn’t infertile and never was.  It’s me.  ‘ _Male factor infertility,’_ as he put it,” Trystane bit out with what tried to be a smile but came closer to being a grimace.  “The motherfucker had the nerve to laugh and said that _‘my secret was safe with him.’_ He insinuated that he was really only telling me so I could feel free to whore about without taking the usual precautions.  He thought that once my wife was fat with our child, I would lose interest in her.  Fucking Dornish _toxic masculinity culture.”_   Trystane was beet red with ten years of pent-up anger and finished his statement spitting out his words. 

Oberyn narrowed his eyes.  “Go on with your story, but I’ll take care of Dayne.  Trust me on that.”  It took a bit of Oberyn’s considerable ability to control himself to focus on his nephew instead of letting his mind wander over creative ways to destroy the lying quack.  _Later._

Trystane continued, seemingly unconcerned about the fate of his former friend.  “Daenerys was upset to see me at Dragonstone, but she wasn’t angry at first.  When I told her that I loved her, she was enraged.  She thought I was lying, of course.  She didn’t speak to me the whole way home.  I drove all the way from Dragonstone to Sunspear and she didn’t speak a word the whole trip.  I knew she wouldn’t believe a word that I said.  She wouldn’t have believed that I hadn’t known the truth the whole time.  So, I said nothing.”

“You said earlier that she learned in the worst possible way,” Oberyn said quietly.  “I can only guess that you mean that she learned at the hospital after she was shot.  Because she’s pregnant.”

Trystane looked down and closed his eyes tightly.  “She was,” he said after a long moment.  He took in unsteady breath and looked away.  “The shock from the blood loss was too much stress.  The baby didn’t make it.”

“You seem quite upset considering it was Snow’s baby, not yours.”

“Of course I’m upset!” Trystane said obstinately, his voice raised.  “Who cares whose baby it was?  Daenerys lost four embryos.  I remember how painful that was.  I’m sure that for her, this is much worse.  I love Daenerys.  The last thing I want is for her to be hurt.  Fuck, even Jon Snow… you know, he’s not a bad guy.  If he weren’t fucking my wife, I imagine we’d be friends.”

“That’s all very well and good, very magnanimous and all, but surely you can see how this could have created all kinds of problems, right?”  Oberyn tried to keep his tone measured.  _Doran will be apoplectic._

“Not really, no.  Not on my end, at least.  I’ve no idea what they would have decided to do, but I would have said it was mine if that’s what they wanted.  No one would have known.”

“Pasty white, likely gray-eyed baby, and you think no one would have known?”

“Targaryens have quite a bit of Stark blood.  Starks often have gray eyes; in fact, it’s just as common a trait in Targaryens as it is in Starks.  Daenerys has very pale skin.  It would have been easy to explain, not that anyone would have suspected.  No one seriously questions Jaime Lannister’s bastards with his sister, do they?  And that is a lot more obvious.  At least Snow and I have the same color hair.”

“I see you’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Oberyn observed with a raised eyebrow.  “Could it be because you knew this was bound to happen eventually?  And still, you said nothing.”

“Like I said, it’s an inexcusable betrayal.  She was well within her rights to throw me out.  I appreciate that I’ve put our family in a bad position and I’m sorry.”  He took in a shaky breath and pinched his eyes shut.  He slumped over and held his head in his hands, not saying anything for a long time.

Oberyn observed his nephew quietly for a while, trying to decide how best to handle this situation.  It was much worse and much more complicated than he had feared.  Trystane opened his eyes finally and grimaced.  “I need a drink,” he said, starting to get up.

“Sit,” Oberyn ordered sharply.  Trystane’s nostrils flared, but he obeyed.  Oberyn shook his head.  “You don’t need a drink.  You need to pull your head out of your ass and stop being a little bitch.” 

To Oberyn’s satisfaction, Trystane narrowed his eyes in anger.  He must have realized his uncle’s motives because the sliver of anger dissipated almost as suddenly as it had appeared.  His posture relaxed, and he regarded Oberyn dispassionately.

This time, Oberyn was genuinely angry.  “I don’t even recognize you right now.  Are you a Martell, or not?”

“I’m a Martell,” Trystane sighed.

“What are our words?”

Trystane rolled his eyes and Oberyn had to resist the urge to slap him.  “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken,” he muttered.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” his nephew hissed back.

“You could have fooled me.  You know what, Trystane?  I came here because I was concerned about the alliance with the Targaryens.  But at this point, I’m more worried about you.  No amount of money or credibility we can get from them is worth you turning into what you are now.  Which is a slouching, muttering coward who wants to get drunk at ten in the morning despite still nursing a hangover.  If you can’t stand being married to Daenerys anymore, get a divorce.”   _Doran will slap the shit out of me for suggesting it, but it needed to be said._

Trystane held his head up all the way for the first time since they’d started talking and stared him down, his tone intransigent.  “I am not divorcing Daenerys.  I love her.  And I fucking dare you to call me a coward again.  You can tell my father that I don’t owe either of you an explanation.  You can both go fuck yourselves.  Is that _unbroken_ enough for you?”

“It’s an improvement.  You’re starting to sound like we might be blood relatives.  The real question is what are you going to do about all this.  Do you have a plan?”

Trystane gave him a calculating smile.  “Daenerys is going to be kicking off her reelection campaign in less than a year.  The primary is a year and half out.  I can’t stop her from having me killed, but I feel confident that Jon Snow will stop her from filing for divorce right before a fucking election.  Even if he wanted that – which I suspect he does not – he’d caution her against doing it if it looked like I might be trouble for them.  I’ll be trouble.” 

Oberyn smirked.  “What makes you think he doesn’t want her to get a divorce?”

“He all but told me as much.  In any case, I’ll find out soon.  He’ll be here in a couple days.  Yronwood is announcing his resignation later today.  I’ll run for his seat in the Senate, stay away from Daenerys as she’s demanded, and wait and see.  Best I can do right now.  Who knows?  Maybe she’ll decide she misses me.”  He smiled sardonically.

“It isn’t much of a plan, but I suppose it’s better than nothing.”

“Like I said, I don’t really care what you suppose.  Ordinarily, I’d be more polite, but I wouldn’t want my beloved uncle to think I wasn’t _unbent_ , gods forbid.”

“You’ve made your point, nephew.”

“Not yet.  I still need to work in _unbowed_ somehow.”

Oberyn snorted.  “Fine.  You’re worthy of the Martell name.  Forget I said anything, seven hells.”

Trystane laughed mirthlessly and shook his head.  “I can see why you were concerned, but I don’t think there’s any cause to panic.  House Targaryen needs the same thing from us that they needed twelve years ago.  My beloved wife is a practical person.  Frey isn’t going to fork over all the cash she needs for her campaign.  In fact, Snow is likely trying to convince her to ditch Frey altogether.  He’s a liability.”

“Why is that?”

“He has poor judgment.  The Lannisters may not care about such things, but then again, they couldn’t get their candidate over the top, could they?  It doesn’t matter if Frey switches sides.  In the end, all he brings to a campaign is money, and we have more of it than he does.”

“Doran isn’t going to be happy, but I’ll let him know that you have things as under control as it’s possible for them to be.”

“Tell him I’ll be by tomorrow to kiss his ring or whatever.”

Oberyn laughed and got up, grabbing a plum to take with him.  “I’ll tell him.  You should bring Mellei.  He likes her.  He’ll probably go easier on you if your defender is there.”  He walked back through the palace, winking at Mellei as he passed her, and returned to his car.

 _Mission accomplished_.

***

Shortly after Judge Cerwyn had called for a recess for the parties to engage in settlement negotiations, Jon caught sight of Barbrey Ryswell.  Her ever-grim face was twisted in anger as she spoke with her attorney.  Jon couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it wasn’t difficult to work out that she was upset that her motion hadn’t been granted immediately.

Jon thought that they had a significantly better than 50/50 shot at defeating the remand motion.  He was only slightly less confident about the motion for change of venue.  But Jon knew that there were no certainties in the case, and while he stood by his initial advice to Daenerys about his proposed strategy, he made a final decision about a plan B that he’d come up with to kill the case. 

Daenerys was facing a possible scandal with her marriage, Trystane was running for a senate seat, and they were still trying to prove Walder Frey’s connection to the attempted assassination.  There just wasn’t any time left for Barbrey Ryswell and her bullshit, not now.

It would be a risk, but only to Jon himself.  He was willing to take it.  There was no guarantee that it would work, but his gut told him it just might.  He walked up to Ryswell, earning him an annoyed glance from her attorney.

“Ms. Ryswell, I was hoping to speak with you privately regarding a personal matter.  Do you have a moment?”

“I don’t see what matter of a personal nature you could possibly have to discuss with me, Mr. Snow.”

“It’s important.  If you’d like for your attorney to be present, that would be fine.”

She gave a long-suffering sigh.  “I don’t want to take away his time for preparing to argue this motion when court reconvenes.  I’ll talk to you myself.”

Jon led them to a small attorney-client conference room.  It was a brightly-lit room about the size of Jon’s closet.  There was just enough room for a small table and two chairs.

Ryswell crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, refusing to sit.  Jon decided not to press the issue and sat down himself.  He looked up at her politely.

“For months now, I’ve been trying to figure out your motivations in bringing this case against President Targaryen, and I think I’ve figured it out.  It doesn’t have anything to do with the president, does it?”

Ryswell merely glared at him, not answering.

“That’s okay, you don’t need to answer that,” Jon said calmly.  “I’m just getting to my point that I think this case is predicated on an unfortunate misunderstanding, and I’d like to clear it up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Read the complaint if you want to know what this case is predicated on.”

“My foster father, Ned Stark, was good friends with your late husband.  I’m sure that you know that.  Until I was eleven years old, I had never been told my birth father’s identity.  Finally, shortly after my eleventh nameday, Ned told me.”

Ryswell gave him a look like an animal baring its teeth.  Jon ignored her glare and pulled a set a military identification tags from his coat pocket and set them on the table.

“He gave me these.  He told me that my father was a hero, and that he’d died beyond the wall before I was born.”

The tags were clearly inscribed with a name: _Dustin, William_.  When Ryswell saw the tags, she inhaled sharply.  She didn’t take her eyes off them, and Jon could see her fingers twitch.  He could tell it was taking all her self-control not to snatch them off the table.

“Ned wanted me to have something to remember my father by.  Many times when I was a boy, other children would taunt me and even beat me up for being a bastard.  Only once, after being taunted, I gave into the temptation to tell the boys harassing me that my father was a soldier, a war hero, and had served with Ned Stark.  I imagine, based on this case and your open hostility towards me, that word of this reached your ears at some point and you reached the obvious conclusion.”

Ryswell’s nostrils flared.  “Yes.  I’ve known for some time that you’re my husband’s bastard.  Thank you for the painful reminder.”

Jon shook his head.  “There’s a bit of blood on one of these tags near the edge that was never rinsed off.  It isn’t much, but it should be enough for a DNA test.  While I can’t prove the blood is his, I also have no way of knowing whether you have an old hairbrush or something similar of his lying around to use for comparison.” 

Jon leaned forward and stared at her intently.  “I brought these tags because I want you to have them.  They’re useless to me, because they aren’t a memento of my father.  William Dustin and I are not related, and I can prove it.”

He plucked a strand of hair from the top of his head at the root and offered it to her.  After a long moment, she took it and grabbed the dog tags off the table.  Jon reached into his coat pocket and produced a Zip-lock bag which he handed to her.

“I truly apologize for any pain that I inadvertently caused you when I was a boy, Ms. Ryswell,” Jon said sincerely.  “While I didn’t use his name, I didn’t realize how easy it would be for the connection to be made.  I didn’t know that the only other man with them was Qhorin Halfhand, or that it was an open secret that he was gay.  There was only one possibility.  I didn’t understand that.”

“I suppose it isn’t your fault; it’s the fault of Ned Stark for telling lies,” Ryswell allowed.

“He didn’t lie intentionally.  It was what he was told, and he died believing it.  He meant you no harm either.  He made it clear that I was never to speak of this to anyone.  I disobeyed him.”

Ryswell was quiet for a long time.  She placed the hair in the plastic bag and set it aside.  Running a finger along the side of one of the dog tags, she stared at it a while before placing them into the bag as well.

“Thank you for giving these to me, Mr. Snow,” she said quietly.  “It’s been over thirty years, but my husband’s honor has been restored.  I’m in your debt.”

“I’m happy to do it, Ms. Ryswell.”

“Dustin,” she said suddenly.  “Call me Barbrey Dustin, please.”

“Mrs. Dustin.”

She took a deep breath and looked at him.  “Baelish will have to pursue whatever scheme he has in mind without my help.  He’s obviously been stalling for time.  Whatever leverage he thought he had on you must have evaporated.  He never said what it was, and frankly, I’ve grown weary of pursuing this frivolous lawsuit.  I’m dropping the case.”

“I appreciate that, Mrs. Dustin.”

***

_Sunspear, 2018 AC_

As a campaign manager, Jon knew that one of the most important elements of a campaign was a noteworthy announcement.  It should be newsworthy enough to be well-covered by both local and national media – money couldn’t buy the free buzz from being covered as legitimate news.  It was better than running a hundred paid ads.  In the case of Trystane Martell’s senate campaign, it would be particularly important.  A strong showing of public support would indicate to any would-be challengers that they would be facing an uphill battle that was most likely not worth fighting.  It wouldn’t mean an unopposed run, but Jon thought that it would dissuade the more practical (and thus more electable) candidates from trying.

Accordingly, Jon had seen to it that a crowd of 25,000 supporters rallied to watch Trystane Martell announce his candidacy for the empty senate left open by the resignation of embattled former Senate Leader Anders Yronwood.  Jon’s polling had revealed that the vast majority of Dornish voters supported Yronwood’s removal.  Whispers of an embarrassing recall campaign and possible criminal charges for financial improprieties coupled with Jon’s gentle but insistent urging for Yronwood to resign for the good of his province had coalesced into a perfect storm to do in the disgraced senator for good.

It wasn’t difficult to rouse supporters for the campaign announcement.  Even at this early stage, the massive grassroots organization that had mobilized to elect Daenerys was easily reactivated to elect Trystane.  The deepest of those roots were right here in Dorne.  Jon had seen to it that the organization had been properly watered and fertilized following Daenerys’ campaign.  It hadn’t been hard or expensive to do.  Email updates, social media, community events, and an online petition system had kept supporters engaged.  Many of them were happy to come out to the Water Gardens to listen to Trystane’s remarks, known as he was for his fiery speaking style and bravery.  Four days after Governor Doran Martell had announced a special election to choose a new senator to be held in sixty days, thousands of supporters were on hand to cheer wildly for Trystane’s campaign announcement.

It was important not to take any attention from the candidate, so Jon stayed in the shadows, although not completely out of sight.  A campaign manager is usually invisible, but Jon knew that his fame changed the calculations somewhat.  His plan was to introduce Trystane and then disappear into the crowd.  _Not that Trystane fucking Martell needs an introduction, but whatever._

Daenerys had benefitted from a pep talk before her announcement, but Trystane seemed confident enough to not need one.  His demeanor had been calm and focused since Jon had arrived in at the Sunspear campaign headquarters that morning.  They had both been busy the whole day, working on strategy, meeting with staff, and organizing volunteers.  Still, it was better not to assume.  Jon decided to ask.

“Are you nervous?”

Trystane twisted his cufflink and smiled at Jon wanly.  “No.  The speech you wrote is great.  I’m surprised.”

Jon gave him an offended, incredulous look.

“No, that not what I meant,” he clarified.  “I mean, I was expecting one of Daenerys’ speeches.  This reads like something I would say.  What I would have written myself if I knew how to write a speech.”

“You have a completely different style than Daenerys.  It’s much better to play to your strengths than make you something you aren’t.  You’re going to do great.  This crowd loves you.”

“We’ll see.”

The announcement had gone off without a hitch.  The optics were on point, the crowd enthusiastic, and the speech delivered with perfect Dornish panache.  Jon thanked the small Sunspear campaign staff for planning the rally and met with Trystane at the new campaign headquarters.

He seemed quite sedate considering his recent performance.  He sat at a long folding table among some hastily printed campaign signs and buttons, staring at the wall.  Jon sat across from Trystane, disturbing his candidate’s brooding. 

If it had been Daenerys, Jon wouldn’t have hesitated to ask what was wrong.  He realized that hesitation or no, he would still have to ask.  It was necessary for running a successful campaign to keep the candidate positive and energized.  This melancholy did not bode well.

“What’s wrong?” Jon queried.

Trystane took a deep breath but didn’t answer.  He looked down the wall away from Jon towards a map of Dorne that someone had tacked up to plan campaign appearances.  His lips pursed, Trystane looked as though he was trying stop himself from answering a question that he wanted to answer rather than the other way around.

“If this campaign is going to succeed, we need to be able to talk to each other,” Jon said.  “I know that we don’t have the best history, but I’d like for us to be friends.”

Trystane turned towards him then and smiled pleasantly.  “We _are_ friends, Jon.”

Jon resisted the urge to groan with frustration.  “That’s not what I mean.  I don’t mean King’s Landing politicos exchanging favors and pleasantries with each other and stabbing each other in the back when it suits them.  Ned Stark used to tell me that there were summer friends, people who turned their back on you at the first sign of trouble.  Those are the kind of people one makes friends with in the capital.  I want us to be winter friends.”

Trystane’s fake smile evaporated instantly replaced with an angry sneer that betrayed more emotion than he probably intended.  “What?  You want to be BFFs and braid each other’s hair?  Make snow angels together?”

It occurred to Jon that he would need to warn Trystane about sarcasm.  It didn’t come off well with the voters.  For the moment, he decided to answer in kind.  Jon generally couldn’t match Trystane in the sarcasm department, but he decided to do his best.  “Yes.  I want us wear matching handmade friendship bracelets as well.”

It worked, and Trystane barked out a laugh.  “Okay, _friend_.  You’re probably going to regret this someday, maybe even today, but you asked for it.”

“I did.  Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Yes,” Trystane replied, a resentful glimmer appearing in his eyes as he spoke.  “And it’s something that I think my _winter friend_ Jon Snow can help with.  It seems that my loving wife has seen fit to throw me out of my home and banish me to another province.  She won’t take my calls and I haven’t seen my kids in a week.  I don’t even know when she has in mind for me to see them again, if ever.  You might not know this, but my wife is a busy lady.  ‘President’ of something or other.  I’m the one who takes care of Nym and Egg most of the time.  Daenerys will tell you otherwise; that it’s Gilly who looks after them, but that is _not accurate_.  I would like my children to come see me here in Sunspear for a few days.  Perhaps you could prevail upon your paramour to put them on a plane to visit their father.”

It had been said in the breezy, sardonic way of a statement that the speaker fully expects to be ignored or rejected.  As if he had known himself to be wasting his breath on talking to a person who didn’t care.  Jon wasn’t sure why Trystane thought that of him, but he obviously did.

“Consider it handled.”

“Simple as that?  ‘Consider it handled?’  You must have greater faith in Daenerys to be reasonable than is sensible.”

“I can be very convincing.”

Trystane furrowed his brow as if trying to decide whether he should believe what Jon said.  Eventually, he sighed and nodded.  “I appreciate it.”

“I’ve been distracted with work, so I wasn’t aware of this situation.  If I had been, I would have addressed it with Daenerys without you prompting me.  I know it’s fairly well-known so perhaps you already know this, but I never knew my father.  The situation is very different, of course, but I wouldn’t want Aegon and Nymeria to suffer a similar fate.  Not when I could say something.”

Trystane fidgeted uncomfortably with a campaign button.  “I had forgotten about that.  I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.  I was luckier than most bastards.  I had Ned Stark.  But your kids don’t need a surrogate father; they have you.”

“Thank you, Jon,” Trystane said, relaxing a little.  “I know haven’t said it yet, but I appreciate you working on this campaign.  I know it’s a step down for you, to do a senate campaign after a presidential campaign.”

“I am working on a presidential campaign.”

Trystane shook his head and looked at Jon like he thought he was soft in the head.  “Daenerys isn’t running for reelection until 2020.  I know one needs to plan ahead, but you probably have several more months before you need to worry about that, especially since she’ll be an incumbent this go around.”

Jon rolled his eyes.  “No, I’m talking about 2024.  Daenerys can only serve two terms.  If we want the republic to endure, someone will have to come afterward, right?”  Trystane pursed his lips at Jon’s mocking answer, guardedly awaiting further clarification.

Jon explained further.  “My candidate needs a lot of seasoning, but the good news is he has billions of dragons and I won’t have to deal with Walder Frey this time.  Gods, would that we had told him ‘thanks, no thanks’ before.  It’s not as though we needed his money.”

Trystane looked at Jon like he had taken complete leave of his senses.  “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not that great at telling jokes, so yes, I am.  Who better to lead our great nation after President Targaryen leaves office than my good friend and Dorne’s next senator, Trystane Martell?”

“Just about anyone, I’d wager.  What even put this wacky idea into your head, Snow?”

“Why did I work on Daenerys’ campaign?”

“You want me to answer that?” Trystane replied, lifting an amused eyebrow.

Jon huffed in annoyance.  “Were you not in Vaes Dothrak with Daenerys?  You were in just as much danger, did just as much to protest the treatment of women there.  In Meereen, if I recall correctly, you only missed Daenerys’ inspiring speech to the slaves because the Wise Masters had tossed you in jail on some bullshit charge.  Not as attention getting as inciting a riot, but not nothing.  If I’d been a better climber than Ygritte instead of the other way around, you and Ygritte would be the famous refugee activists, not Daenerys and me.  Every reason I have to believe in her is a reason to believe in you.”

Trystane laughed.  “I hope not _every_ reason.”

Jon snorted but otherwise ignored the jab.  “You helped me get justice for Eleyna Westerling, insofar as she got any.  Daenerys gave me nothing but pushback on that.”

“Her hands were tied.”

“Were they?  You told me yourself that they weren’t.  Those were your exact words.  Why do you think those people came to see you today?  Because I sent them an email?  No, they wanted to see the person who has done so much for their province.  Is there even a library, orphanage, battered woman’s shelter, or soup kitchen in Dorne that doesn’t operate on Martell Corporation cash?  I know that they had to start naming buildings at UD Sunspear with first and last names because ‘Martell Hall #8’ would have been too confusing.”

“That’s not only me.  We all do that shit.  My father, Oberyn, Arianne, Quentyn – we all do.  It’s not like we can’t afford it.”

“Quite a bit has been at your direction.”

Trystane looked around the room as if looking for arguments that he could use or someone to back him up.  “I know this is something that you most often hear conservatives harping about, but what about ‘character counts’?  I’m a well-known degenerate.”  Jon was a little surprised to hear Trystane call himself such.  He hadn’t said it flippantly.

Jon waved off the objection.  “You could be as virtuous as Baelor the Blessed and those people wouldn’t vote for you.  Besides, it isn’t _well_ -known.  I can fix it.”

Trystane laughed and shook his head dismissively.  “I know that JSA’s _raison d'etre_ is the collection of dirt on every politician in Westeros.  You probably had to rent a storage unit just for what you have on me.”

“Since we’re friends, I’ll tell you something.  You’re wrong.  JSA’s _raison d'etre_ is finding the people responsible for the murders of Eddard, Catelyn, and Rickon Stark and bringing them to justice.  Collecting dirt on people like you is just a means to an end.  But you’re right.  I know all your bad deeds, just as you know mine.  Tell me, what do you think you did that one couldn’t accuse Daenerys of?”

Trystane didn’t have an answer for that, so uncharacteristically, he remained silent.

“None of the objections you’ve made are relevant.  There is only one thing that matters.  Do you want it?”

Trystane narrowed his eyes at Jon and didn’t answer right away.  Jon waited patiently, already knowing what the answer was.  He had known as he watched Trystane stand next to Eleyna Westerling’s parents and hold his own wife’s administration to account for an injustice that had gone unanswered.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love! I appreciate all of you, especially after this 26k+ word beast of a chapter. <3


	15. Don't Speak.  I Know What You're Thinking, And I Don't Need Your Reasons.  I Know You're Good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nym takes a trip. Daenerys asks for one thing. Willas makes a mistake. Trystane and Jon hit the campaign trail. JSA cracks a case. Secrets are revealed. Justice is served in a way that was not expected. Betrayal is answered and loyalties are tested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from "Don't Speak" by No Doubt. Check out the playlist that inspires this story [here](https://spoti.fi/2HOzHGN). I recently updated it so it's in order by chapter through Chapter 25 (in case anyone is interested in hints/mild spoilers).
> 
> I've updated both the tags and description along with this chapter being posted. It occurred to me that this fic needs an angst tag; it will be put to use in upcoming chapters.

Chapter 15

“Don't Speak. I Know What You're Thinking, And I Don't Need Your Reasons. I Know You're Good.”

 

Nym skated close to the edge, close enough that Gilly could call out to her.

“Nym, we need to be getting along, hon.”

Nym circled around and stopped just short of the wall, kicking up shards of ice as she did. “Ten more minutes, Gilly.”

“We’re supposed to be at the airport in twenty minutes.”

Nym rolled her eyes. “Gilly, my dad’s plane isn’t taking off without Egg and me on it.  Ten more minutes.”

Gilly sighed and waved at the ice.  “Fine, go skate.  Just ten minutes.  Then we really need to go.” 

Nym turned around in time to see her cousin land a triple Salchow.  Nym had a professional coach, but she preferred to skate with Rhaenys when she could. Rhaenys had wanted to be a competitive figure skater, but her father had forbidden it and she’d become a lawyer instead. Nym thought that was very sad. Rhaenys was a great skater.  Nym had seen her do a triple Axel, but Rhaenys had said later that she’d two-footed the landing.  It hadn’t looked that way to Nym, but that’s what her cousin had said.

Rhaenys skated over to her and waved at the sound booth.  “Let’s see your routine one more time.”  A few seconds later, the song she’d chosen for her routine, “That’s My Girl,” started playing.

She started with a five-step mohawk sequence, then did series of three-turns.  She picked up speed going towards the center of the rink before going into a camel spin, followed by a sit spin.

Feeling confident about her spins, she skated backwards before going into her first jump, a Salchow. She started it out with an outside three-turn, and as she jumped, she was sure to keep her arms close to her as Rhaenys had told her to.

She landed it and smiled widely when she heard Gilly yelling out encouragingly.  She felt a little guilty for having rolled her eyes at her before.  She spotted both Gilly and Rhaenys watching her as she turned around.

Now came the hard part. Nym did a series of three waltz jumps to prepare for the hardest move in her routine.  After countless falls and tons of practice, she had finally gotten her Axel down.  She took off on the left-forward outside edge of her skate, vaulted over the toe pick of her left skate, and spun in the air with her legs crossed – one and a half turns. She felt a rush of victory when she felt herself land on her right skate’s back outside edge and heard Gilly and Rhaenys cheering.

She skated back towards the center of the rink and went into a layback spin.  Her routine finished, she raced towards Gilly and off the ice. 

“That was beautiful,” Gilly said.  “Nice job.” 

Rhaenys joined them and gave her a high five.  “That Salchow was perfect, Nym.  And your spins are on point.  Really good speed.  Nice job on the Axel; great height.  I knew you could do it.  You’ll be doing doubles before you know it.”

Nym grinned and sat down to unlace her skates.  “And maybe one of these days I can do a triple like you.”

She hadn’t really been serious, since a triple Axel was the hardest jump in figure skating and only a handful of female skaters had ever landed one in competition.  But her cousin encouraged her anyway.  “I don’t doubt it,” Rhaenys said with a laugh. “You’ll be doing all the double and triple jumps before long, I expect.  I recorded your routine to send to your coach.  She’s going to be so impressed.”

“Can you send it to me too? I want to show my dad when we get to Sunspear.”  Usually her dad would come with her to her lessons, but now he was in Dorne running for a senate seat.  That annoyed Nym immensely.  The first time her mom had run for office had been bad enough; she’d had to move away from most of her cousins and her friends.  After the second time, they’d had to move again.  Now that they lived in the Red Keep, her mom was always so busy.

Rhaenys’ mouth twisted in a funny way before her smile returned.  “Of course.”  Nym always had the impression that her cousin didn’t like her dad, but she couldn’t figure out why.  He was always nice to her, at least as far as Nym could tell.  She had asked her dad about it once, and he had said he didn’t think it was true.

“Thanks, Rhaenys.”  She hugged her cousin before leaving the ice skating rink with Gilly.

Egg and Barristan were already waiting outside in the Suburban when she and Gilly came outside.

“Gods, Nym,” Egg said grumpily.  “We’ve been waiting forever.  Why did you take so long?”

She stuck her tongue out at him.  “Rhaenys and I were skating.”

Egg scoffed at her. “You probably just fell on your butt the whole time.”

_Jerk!_   She swatted her brother on the arm.  “Shut up! You’re wrong.”

Gilly turned to stare at her disapprovingly.  “Nym, don’t say ‘shut up.’  And you shouldn’t hit your brother.  I heard that.”

Nym started to object but Gilly cut her off, turning her gaze on Egg.  “And you, Aegon Martell.  Be nice to your sister.  You didn’t see her skate, so you have no idea if she fell or not.  I want both of you to apologize to each other.”

She and Egg glared at each other.  “Sorry,” she muttered at the same time her brother muttered the same.  They were both quiet for the rest of the short trip to KLX.

Nym felt strange about flying without either of her parents.  She had never done it before.  While she did have Egg, Gilly, and Barristan with her, it was still weird.  She buckled herself into her seat next to the window and looked out the window out at the tarmac as the plane began to taxi. 

Egg sat next to her, as he didn’t like to sit by the window.  He was a nervous flyer.  Once the plane left the ground, Egg grabbed her hand and squeezed it.  She thought for a second about teasing him the way he had teased her in the car but thought better of it.  She knew he was really scared.

“Flying is the safest way to travel, Egg,” she said, trying to sound comforting.  “And this is Dad’s plane, so you know it’s the best.”

Egg looked skeptical. He looked over at Barristan, who nodded. “Your sister is right, Little Egg.” This mollified Egg somewhat.  He might not have believed Nym, but Barristan would know about such things.  “In fact, it’s a hundred times safer than travelling by car.”

Nym was curious and wanted to ask Barristan if that just meant that automobile travel was really dangerous but decided not to.  Egg had loosened the death grip he had on her hand.  There wasn’t any use in making things worse.  Her fingers would thank her later.

Gilly asked the flight attendant to put on Finding Dory.  They would probably arrive in Sunspear before it was over, but Nym had already seen it, so she didn’t mind.  Once the plane leveled out, Egg finally let go of her hand and concentrated on watching the movie.  Nym watched intermittently, staring out the window a lot of the time.  A blanket of green covered the ground below them as they passed over the Kingswood.  _The world certainly looks strange from up here,_ she thought.

She was excited when the plane started to descend, and the pilot announced they’d be landing in twenty-five minutes. She was eager to see her father and she missed Dorne.

Egg leaned over to glance out the window just as they were coming back over land.  “That’s Ghost Hill down there, do you see?”

“I see something.  How can you tell from here?  It’s too dark.”  It had still been light out when they took off, but dusk had fallen, and it was nearly dark out.

“We were just over the Sea of Dorne.  If we’re twenty-five minutes from Sunspear, then that must be Ghost Hill.  None of the other cities on the north coast in this area are that large.”

“How long do you have to study maps to remember them the way you do?”

“Awhile, I guess.  I like maps.”  That was certainly true, Nym thought.  Her brother’s best subjects were geography and history, and he could draw a map of Westeros from memory.  Nym liked history as well, but she wasn’t super interested in geography. Her favorite subject was High Valyrian, which Egg hated.

As they got closer to the ground, Egg continued to pick out whichever landmarks he could in the growing darkness.  For some reason, he was only nervous about taking off, but landings were fine.

She’d only been expecting her dad to meet them at the airport, so she was excited to see her Aunt Arianne and Grand Uncle Oberyn waiting for her and Egg as well.  She hugged her dad first, then Aunt Arianne.

“Look at how much you’ve grown, Nym,” Oberyn said affectionately after giving her a hug. “I’ve missed you, sweetling.”

“I missed you too, Uncle Oberyn,” she replied.  He was technically her father’s uncle, but he had told her and Egg to just call him uncle. She thought it was funny how adults always wanted to pretend that they weren’t old.

They left in two cars to go to the Water Gardens, which was her absolute favorite place.  Her dad had said that her grandfather would meet them there.  She, Egg, Gilly, Barristan, and her dad rode together in one car; Oberyn and Arianne went in another.

“Hey dad, do you want to see my skating routine from today?”

“Yeah, definitely.” He took her phone from her so he could watch.  She felt a little smug when Egg leaned over to watch as well.  _He’ll see that I didn’t fall on my butt._

“Wow, sweetheart, you were awesome!” her dad said after the video finished.  “You totally nailed that Axel.  Good job!  That layback spin at the end was perfect, the best I’ve seen you do.”

Nym beamed.  “Rhaenys said she thought I could do a double Axel pretty soon.”

“I’m sure she’s right,” he said, restarting the video to watch it again.  “She’s a great skater.  But you’re going to be even better.”

“It was really good, Nym,” her brother said diplomatically.  He looked over at their father.  “Dad, can we go golfing tomorrow?  I brought my clubs.”

“Sure.  Nym, do you want to go golfing tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but I left my golf clubs at home.”

“That’s okay.  We can get you some more.”

They arrived at the Water Gardens not long after, and her grandfather was very happy to see them. He even had gifts for them – her gift was a necklace with a gold sun pendant.

“Thank you, Grandfather, I love it.  Can you help me put it on?”

“Of course, Princess.” He fastened the necklace and smiled.

“I know how much you two love pizza.  Are you hungry?”

“Yes!” she and Egg both said at once.

Later, once they had eaten and her family had asked her all sorts of questions, she, Egg, and a few of their cousins settled in to watch a movie.  She only half paid attention to it because her grandfather talking to her dad in the next room was distracting her.

“So, is it possible to interpret this as a positive development?  Have things with Daenerys improved?”

“It’s not a negative one. There hasn’t been any change.”

_Mom said she was fine.  They let her out of the hospital.  What’s he talking about?_

“Have you spoken with her?”

“No.  That would be a bad idea.”

_Why would it be a bad idea?  Are they fighting again?_ She was pretty sure that her parents did not know, but she had heard them arguing a few times when they thought she wasn’t around, or that she’d gone to sleep.

Her grandfather raised his voice just a little.  “I don’t see how it’s possible to reconcile with someone if you don’t at least attempt to speak with them.”

Her dad said something she couldn’t quite make out all of; she only heard the end.  “…hear you.”

“They’re watching a movie,” her grandfather said, a bit quieter.

After that, she didn’t hear them say anything else.  Nym wasn’t stupid.  She knew her parents didn’t always get along.  She understood that not only did they not get along, but that they didn’t want her and Egg to know about it.  They did know, of course.

Nym knew there was no point in asking about it.  Her parents would both pretend it was otherwise, that everything was perfectly fine. Nym had lived in King’s Landing long enough to not only know a lie when she heard one, but to also be weary of hearing them.  She focused on watching the movie and paid her father and grandfather’s conversation no further mind.

***

Sansa had accepted Willas’ invitation with ambivalence.  On the one hand, she wanted to see him because she really liked him.  The election rigging and Skytech investigation made things extremely complicated.  She had known when they started dating that it would be, but she hadn’t foreseen things becoming _this_ complicated.

The smart thing to do would be to stop seeing him entirely.  Thinking about that just made her angry all over again.  She was angry enough at Jon to smack him for putting them in this situation.  Not just because it put her at odds with Willas, of course, but because it put them all in danger.

Jon was concerned that Walder Frey might try to send another assassin after Daenerys, but Sansa thought that was unlikely.  What he might try to do was send an assassin after other people who knew, like Jon, the other conspirators, or Willas.  Jon didn’t seem to think it was a risk.  What she hated most of all was not even being able to tell Willas that she thought he might be in danger.

Her doorbell rang. Willas greeted her with a hug and a kiss.  She tried to discern whether there was anything in his demeanor that could reveal if he was suspicious of her.  He didn’t seem to be.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“Yes.  Let me just grab my bag and my coat.”  She put her coat on, grabbed her purse, and they headed outside.

Sansa preferred to avoid the overpriced eateries of the capital where the movers and shakers of Westeros went to be seen and eat mediocre food.  Instead, Willas took her to small Lysene noodle shop on a quiet street near the river.

Despite the fact that Lysene noodle soup was all the rage among Crownlands hipsters, this place wasn’t quite hip enough to be on their radar.  Most of the tables were filled, and they were the only people there who weren’t Lyseni.  The musical sound of the Lysene dialect of Valyrian filled the air as the other diners conversed and the employees went about their work.

Just minutes after ordering, their waiter returned with two huge, steaming bowls of soup filled with fragrant beef broth, paper-thin slices of rare flank steak, and skinny rice noodles. A few slivered onions and cilantro were placed on top.  The waiter had brought out optional toppings for them to add, which Sansa started mixing in to her soup – basil, pepper sauce, quartered limes, and bean sprouts.

“That’s quite a lot of pepper sauce,” Willas observed.  “I didn’t know you liked it spicy.”

“It’s good this way,” Sansa retorted.  “You should try it with the basil.  That’s the best part.”

“I’m not fond of the basil. I think it over-powers the flavors of the star anise and cloves.”

She shrugged.  “Suit yourself.”  She added a few more basil leaves to her bowl, seeing as how she didn’t need to share them with her dining companion.

“So, how has work been?” he asked, his tone friendly and casual. 

_Too casual, perhaps.  He’s trying to get information from me.  This isn’t good._

“It’s been busy,” she said. “We’re stretched quite thin right now between our regular clients, filling in at the Red Keep, and running the Martell senate campaign.  Jon, Satin, and Sam are working on those two special tasks right now, so that leaves just Arya, Robb, Sandor, and me to do all the work we normally do.  Which hasn’t slowed down, naturally.”

“I wonder why Jon is still at the Red Keep.  Isn’t Missandei Naath back at work?”

“He’s not there all the time.  Satin is there full time – he’s basically doing Missandei’s job while Missandei does Jon’s old job.  The president was never keen on him resigning, so I think she’s trying to keep him there as long as possible.”

“Surely he isn’t the only person in Westeros who can do the work of a communications director.”

She chuckled.  “Try telling President Targaryen that.”

“How’s the Martell campaign going?”

“Piece of cake.  He’s going to win in a landslide.  Jon’s just pulling out all the stops for show.  It doesn’t hurt to remind our elected officials what JSA can do.”

“What can you do, exactly?”  _Oh Willas, you know.  Come on._

“In this situation, get about eighty percent of the vote.  That’s Jon’s goal, anyway.”

“Seems like overkill.”

“Too much is never enough. It will serve its purpose.”

“Showing politicians that you can crush them without effort?”

“Yes.”

“Well, good luck. Anders Yronwood is a piece of human garbage.  Martell will be an improvement.”

“I think so.  Anyway, what about you?  How are things at your job?”

“Same old shit.  I’m still working on the KLPD corruption problem. We’ve built a good case against several officers.  I feel confident that we’ve managed to root out all the ones involved in the human trafficking ring.”

“That’s great.  How is Mya?”

“Salty as ever.  But she’s great at her job.  It’s going to be a shame when she graduates and I have to find a new paralegal.”

“It seems to me that we’re all better off having such a sharp lady as a lawyer.  Does she plan on becoming a district attorney like you?”

“I think she would like that.  I’d certainly recommend her for the position.”

He spoke easily and didn’t seem like he was pressing her for information too much.  Maybe he wasn’t suspicious of her.  It was difficult to tell.  Usually, Sansa could spot a liar or manipulator without trouble.  Living with Petyr had prepared her well for it. She didn’t sense any lies or manipulation coming from Willas.  Perhaps he had taken her words about her loyalty to her job to heart.

They finished their soup and walked through Blackwater Park for a while, chatting and holding hands. They walked near the riverbank and stopped near its edge.  Willas turned to face her and pulled her close to him.  He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear and gave her a gentle kiss.

When he pulled away from her, he looked into her eyes, seeming uncertain.

“Sansa,” he said quietly. “I need to tell you something.”

***

Despite all their plans to the contrary, Jon and Daenerys both had found themselves too consumed with work to have so much as a moment alone together in the days following their return from Winterfell.  Not long after that, Jon had had to travel to Dorne for Trystane’s announcement.

Daenerys hadn’t been happy when he suggested sending Aegon and Nymeria to Sunspear, but she hadn’t argued. After their departure, she seemed sedate when he met with her alone in her office, almost taciturn.  She stood at the window behind her desk and stared out the window.

Jon joined her.  “I’m sorry, Dany.  It’s not my place to interfere, but it didn’t seem like there was another way.”

She sighed.  “It’s the right thing to do.  Regardless of how I feel about him, he is their father.  I know that they miss him.”

She clasped his hand, continuing to stare out the window as twilight fell upon the city.  After a few moments of silence, she spoke.  “I want to see you tonight.”

He squeezed her hand and nodded.

Hours later, when the press corps and Red Keep staffers had all departed, Jon returned home, knowing Dany would soon follow.  Twenty minutes after he arrived, there was a knock on his door.  Like before, the presidential guards waited in the hallway and Dany came inside.

The moment Jon turned the lock, Dany pressed him against the back of the door and sealed her lips over his. No longer sedate, her eyes were filled with unnatural ferocity.  They both tore at each other’s clothes, both desperate for skin-to-skin contact. Warring against the need to undress, they kissed in a clash of tongues and teeth in between removing articles of clothing and discarding them haphazardly.

Jon felt relief when he was finally able to feel all of Daenerys’ bare skin against his.  He picked her up and she wrapped her legs around him as he walked her to his bedroom.  He had to remind himself that he had as much time as he needed with her; there was no need to rush.  They had all night.

He sat her down on the bed, bent over, and kissed her again.  She kissed him back, winding her hands through his hair and pulling it.  He climbed into bed beside her, hovering over her as moved to kiss her throat, her breasts, her stomach.  When he reached the scar on her abdomen, he paused.  It was healed, but still an angry red. 

Looking at the scar distracted him, making him think of Walder Frey and what he wanted to do to him the moment they could prove definitively that he was behind the shooting.

_I’ll kill him,_ he thought, rage welling inside him.  _I’ll throw him from the 95 thfloor of Frey Tower and watch him explode on the pavement in a cloud of red mist._

Daenerys noticed as his thoughts wandered.  “Jon.”

He looked up.  “Yeah?”

“Don’t think about it. Be here with me.”

He moved back up her body and put his hands on either side of her head, staring into her eyes.  “I can’t help it.  Seeing that just… I’m sorry, you’re right.”

She placed her hand on his cheek.  “When we figure out who did it, we’ll deal with it.  Until then, I don’t want to focus on something we can’t change.  If we look back, we’re lost.”

“You’re right.”

She pulled his head down to kiss him once more, running her hands down his sides until they came to rest on his hips.

She broke away and stared into his eyes.  “Jon.”

He pulled away from her. “Hmm?”

“I need to ask you something.  For something, actually.”

“Anything, Dany.”

She looked uncertain and hesitant in a way he was unaccustomed to seeing her.  She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again without saying anything.

He rolled to his side, pulling her to face him.  She bit her lip and was quiet.  He reached out for her and gently caressed her cheek and she leaned into his touch.

“Whatever it is, you can talk to me, _ñuha dāria.”_

She took a deep breath. “I want a baby.”

Jon’s eyebrows shot to his forehead.  “Dany, I… that’s not… I don’t understand.”

She stared at him questioningly.  “What don’t you understand?”

Jon looked at her helplessly.  “You told me before that you didn’t want another baby.”

“I didn’t want Trystane’s baby.  I want yours.”

“Dany, this is crazy. If you became pregnant, what would we do?”

She stared at him in challenge.  “I _was_ pregnant.  What would have you done about that?  You’re the fixer.  Surely you could have come up with a strategy.”

“That was an accident,” he said carefully.

“Are you saying that you wouldn’t have wanted our baby?”

His eyes went wide and his voice sounded panicked when he answered.  “No!  Of course not!”

“So, you wanted our baby?”

“Yes.”

“Then what would you have done?”

Jon pursed his lips and stared at her.  He knew he didn’t have to explain the obvious to Daenerys.  For some reason, though, she wanted him to explain what she certainly already knew.  It didn’t take any of his crisis management skills to see that he was walking into a trap. He just didn’t know what purpose it was supposed to serve.  She stared at him, waiting for an answer. 

“Assuming he was amenable – and I expect he would have been – said it was Trystane’s, of course.”

“Of course?” Inexplicably to him, her voice sounded angry.

“Yes.  Of course.”  Jon wondered for a moment exactly what she had wanted him to say.

The anger had gone, and now she merely sounded curious.  “You would have been okay with that?”

“I wouldn’t have had a choice.  Now I do.”

She sat up abruptly and leaned forward to confront him.  “But you would have been fine with it.  Our baby. Our little baby, who would have had curly black hair like Trystane’s and would have called him Dada.  You would have been fine with that?”

Jon inhaled sharply and gritted his teeth.  “Yes. Fine with it.  Completely fine.  Is that what you want me to say?”

“If it was fine by accident, then why can’t it be fine on purpose?”

Jon stared at her, his face pained.  He took a moment to calm himself before answering.  “Dany, I see that you’re still grieving.  That’s only natural.  I am too, believe me.  It truly seemed to me that you had come to terms with what happened.  I suppose I just thought that you’re stronger than me, maybe.  It’s hard for me to accept, but I can’t fix this.  I would give anything to be able to.  But I can’t.  Having another baby won’t replace the one that we lost.  You see that, don’t you?”

Her eyes flashed with anger and she sprung out of the bed to stare him down.  “Don’t tell me how I feel!  Do you think I’m delusional?  Of course I know we can’t replace our dead baby!  Of course I’m still grieving!  Maybe you and who knows who else have the time to sit around and _process your feelings,_ but I don’t!  I have to run this country!  I have to take care of Aegon and Nymeria.  I don’t have time to waste crying over anything.  If I did, I would do little else.”

“If that isn’t the reason, will you tell me why?”

She sucked in a breath and tears pricked at her eyes.  She began pacing the room.  “You think I’m strong?  Maybe. Maybe.  But there’s a limit.  There’s a limit to what you can expect a person to endure.  You may have talked me into waiting two years, but that doesn’t mean…” She pressed her lips together, refusing to finish her thought.  She angrily dashed the tears out of her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Winterfell,” Jon breathed. “This is what you didn’t want to tell me.  I could tell you were holding something back from me, but I ignored it.  You didn’t want to say this, but you were already thinking it.  You wanted to put it off.”

“I was starting to think it. And yes, I was putting it off.  I know how I must sound.  It’s crazy, isn’t it?  I had hoped this feeling would pass.  But it’s only gotten stronger.”

“Daenerys…” he sighed, not finishing his thought.  He got up, walked over to her, and took her hand in both of his, caressing the back of it gently.

“I can’t survive two years without you, Jon.  I just can’t. Even if you’re there, it’s only in the shadows.  Only under the cover of night when I’m allowed to love you.  Secret meetings like this one.  I can’t do it.  I almost died.  Life is so short.  The idea of wasting even another moment of it without you is making me sick.  I need a part of you with me always that I’m allowed to love in the daylight.  Even if we’re the only ones who know.  Otherwise, I’m going to go crazy.  Does that make any sense?”

“It does,” he allowed. “But…”

“But what?”

“I can’t father a bastard, Daenerys.  And yes, I know that I already did.  But now you’re asking me to do it intentionally.”

“It wouldn’t be a bastard. No one would ever know.”

“I would know.”  The way it sounded had a finality Jon hadn’t really intended, but he didn’t know what else to say.

Her face fell and she looked down at the floor.  She blew out a breath slowly, her lips trembling.  Jon had seen her cry before, but he had never seen her defeated like this. She slipped her hand out of his and went to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the blanket down and wrapping it around herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, her tone dull.  She stared at her hands as she picked at her fingernails.  “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

He stared at her helplessly.  _What’s she asking me to give up?  Childhood traumas?  Pride?  Those things are nothing compared to what I asked her to do.  And why?  Politics?  My own sense about what’s right and wrong?  She only asked for one thing and I said no._

Jon suddenly remembered the night this all began.

_He should have felt exhausted after such a long day on the campaign trail, but instead, every nerve was standing on edge.  The key card Daenerys had handed him was burning a hole in his pocket.  As impossible as it seemed, he could still feel where he had briefly held it in his hand.  His palm tingled where the card had touched his skin._

_He watched her walk toward the bank of elevators, her high heels clicking on the tile in the deserted lobby.  She didn’t look back at him; he couldn’t look away.  When she disappeared into an elevator, he swallowed the last of his drink and left the lounge hastily._

_Their rooms were on the same floor; he passed his own while walking to hers.  When he arrived at her door, he paused.  He walked back to his own room, stood by the door for a minute, then walked back towards her room once more._

_He paced the hallway in this fashion for another five minutes.  Finally, he realized that he might be seen, and he had to make a decision one way or another.  He walked to Daenerys’ door, pulled the key card out of his pocket and lifted it to the card reader before lowering it again.  He thought about knocking instead, then decided against it.  It was a little ridiculous to knock on a door if he had the key.  Perhaps there was some reason she didn’t want him knocking._

_He placed the card against the card reader and the light turned green.  He furtively looked both ways in the hallway before pushing the door open.  He took a deep breath as he stepped inside._

_He wasn’t sure what he had expected to see.  Her room looked identical to his own and quite similar to most of the hotel rooms they had been staying in for weeks on the trail.  He walked a few more feet, looking around and not seeing her._

_“Daenerys?”_

_“I’m in here,” she called.  It was only then that he realized the water in the bathtub was running and he had ignored the sound over his blood thundering in his ears.  “Come in; I can barely hear you.”_

_She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub wearing a plain white terrycloth bathrobe.  She grinned at him.  “I wasn’t sure how long you’d be, so I thought I’d soak a bit.  My legs are aching, and my feet… Well, just be glad you’re a man and no one expects you to wear high heels.”  As if to drive the point home, she rested her calf on her knee so she could rub one of her feet._

_He sat on the tile floor in front of her and held his hand out.  “I can do that for you,” he said.  He was surprised at how steady his voice sounded._

_She lowered her foot and he took it between his hands, massaging it carefully.  He looked at it while he did, as though the task required all his concentration._

_She sighed in contentment.  “Can you do it a little harder?  I swear I won’t break.”_

_He laughed lightly and complied with her request.  After a few minutes, she noticed the tub was getting full and she leaned over to turn the water off.  She felt the temperature with her hand and hummed in approval._

_“Boiling hot, that is to say, perfect,” she quipped.  “I wish I’d brought my bubble bath.  Oh well, this will do.  Do you mind?”_

_He blinked at her owlishly, pausing in his ministrations for a moment.  He thought his voice might come out in a squeak, so he merely shook his head and let her foot go.  She stood up, let the robe slip to the floor, and stepped into the bath.  She hissed as she sat in the steaming water, but almost immediately relaxed and leaned back against the back of the tub._

_She looked over at him, raising an amused eyebrow at his obvious discomfort.  “Your first time watching a woman take a bath, Jon Snow?  If so, I’m a little surprised.”_

_“Um, no, I don’t think so.”_

_“You can’t remember for sure?  Wasn’t memorable?”_

_“Guess not.”_

_“Can you do my other foot?”  She lifted her leg out of tub and draped it over the side._

_“Yeah, okay.”  It wasn’t the best angle, so he got off the floor and sat on the edge of the tub, taking hold of the foot he intended to massage and trying not to ogle her breasts._

_She noticed how careful he was not to stare and laughed.  “I’m sorry.  I guess I’ve grown used to Dorne.  It’s not really a big deal to be naked there.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been to the Water Gardens and observed various people swimming in the nude.  Most were people I could have happily gone my whole life without seeing naked.  It was weird at first, but I got used to it.  The North is very different, no?”_

_“It is.  Not many chances to swim.  Certainly not in the nude.”_

_“You should try it sometime, if you ever find yourself in Dorne with enough time on your hands to go for a swim.”_

_“I think my pale-to-the-point-of-being-translucent ass would scandalize the locals.  Not to mention getting sunburned in the most painful location possible.”_

_She laughed.  “I suppose you’re right.  I’m pale as well, but I don’t burn.”  She winked at him.  “Fire cannot kill a dragon, as the saying goes.”_

_He finished massaging her foot and let it go.  “I should probably go.”_

_She looked at him, her brows furrowed.  “Why?  You just got here.”_

_“I wanted… But I shouldn’t.  It’s not right.”_

_“What’s not right?”_

_“You can be a maddening woman sometimes, you know that, Dany?”_

_“Dany?”_

_He blushed.  “I don’t know, I just think of you that way in my head; I don’t know why.”_

_“My brother calls me that.  I think I like it more coming from you.  Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.  Why isn’t it right for you to be here?”_

_He straightened and looked her in the eye.  “My feelings for you, a married woman, are not appropriate.  I shouldn’t be in your hotel room watching you take a bath.”_

_She stood up, stepped out of the bath, and picked her robe off the floor.  She draped it over her arm rather than put it on.  He stood at the same time, unconsciously putting distance between them.  “So, appropriate or not, you do have feelings for me?”_

_“You know that I do.”_

_“I have feelings for you too.  I don’t think of them as ‘inappropriate,’ though.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“My husband and I have, for lack of a better way of describing it, an open marriage.  And arranged as well, as I’ve told you before – not well-arranged.  He would tell you so himself if his face wasn’t buried in the ass of some waitress.  That we have this arrangement was at my insistence, although I haven’t made use of it in the way he has.”_

_“Why would you want a better way of describing it, this arrangement?”_

_“For practical reasons, it suits just fine.  Though I would say that ideally, an open marriage would be better negotiated than we managed.  In advance, certainly.  He didn’t find that necessary.”_

_“I can’t understand it.  You are incredible.  Fierce.  Probably the smartest person I’ve ever met.  Undoubtedly the most beautiful.  I can’t imagine wanting to be with anyone else.”_

_“He has his reasons and I have mine.  It used to make me angry, but I don’t blame him anymore.”_

_“I don’t think that just because he’s chosen a dishonorable path in life means that I should.”_

_“Not everyone has the ability to live up to your exacting moral standards, Jon.  Some people have flaws, things in their lives that they have to try and find a way to deal with somehow.”_

_“I wasn’t trying to judge_ you _.  My only point is that if I could have you, there isn’t anything that could come close to allowing me to turn away from you.”_

_“Isn’t there?  Just a minute ago, you were saying that you wanted to leave.  You_ can  _have me.  Don’t turn away.”_

_He stepped closer to her and she dropped the robe to the floor. He reached out and ran a finger down her face, from her eyebrow to her jaw.  She leaned into his touch._

_“Jon.”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“Kiss me.”_

_He moved his hand to weave her hair through his fingers and pulled her close.  When their lips met, what had started as inevitable with a simple touch of two hands beyond the Wall became unbreakable.  In that moment, he realized that not only did he love Daenerys Targaryen, but that nothing could ever make him stop.  From the pressure of her lips on his, the desperation with which she held him, he knew she felt the same._

Jon realized that he had become distracted by his idle thoughts when he saw she had stopped picking her nails and pulled the blanket tighter around herself.  For the first time, he could truly see her vulnerability. She didn’t seem like a president, a senator, or a civil rights activist; he saw her as she’d been as a young woman, lost and unsure.

_She only asked for one thing.  I can’t say no.  I can’t do that to her, it’s cruel._

Dany continued speaking, not looking up.  “It’s unreasonable and reckless.  It wasn’t fair for me to ask you that.  Don’t worry about…”

He cut her off.  “Okay.”

She furrowed her brow and looked at him in surprise.  “Okay?”

Jon sighed.  “I can’t stand the idea of you being unhappy.  How can I deny you the only thing you asked for when it costs me nothing?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath and nodded.  “I’ll talk to Trystane.”

Jon shook his head. “No.  You shouldn’t have to talk to him.  I’ll handle it.”

She smiled then, a happy and unguarded smile that made Jon let go of any lingering doubts.  _If it makes Dany happy, then how can it be wrong?  Even if it is, who cares?_

_Not everyone has the ability to live up to your exacting moral standards, Jon.  Some people have flaws, things in their lives that they have to try and find a way to deal with somehow._

He got in the bed and pulled her to him, running his hand down her side to her hip.  He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips before maneuvering her so she was on top of him.  She looked down at him in surprise.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

She moved back so she that she was positioned over his thighs and he stroked himself while she watched.  Less than a minute later, she guided him into her, and he tried to forget their discussion and just focus on her.  It didn’t entirely leave his thoughts. 

_Is this reckless?  Absolutely.  When am I ever not reckless with Daenerys?_   Every moment that passed, he cared about it less and less.

He let her take the lead as he usually didn’t.  Usually, he found himself consumed with the need to overwhelm her, to conquer her.  Tonight, for some reason, he was content to lie back and watch her take him. 

When she reached her pleasure, loudly crying his name, he gave her what she wanted.  He held her close to him after, not separating from her for a long while.

***

After Willas had told her that he needed to tell her something, he had insisted that she come back with him to his apartment before telling her.  Sansa was pretty sure that she already knew what it was going to be.  She wasn’t wrong.

“At the time, I was angry that he had the case thrown,” Willas explained following his revelation of what he knew of the election rigging scheme.  “But now, I understand.  I need your help, Sansa.  Walder Frey is a murderer and I need JSA’s help proving it.  Jon must have wanted to thwart Frey’s plan to set Tarly up or else he wouldn’t have stuck his neck out to get him off the hook for the bombing, wouldn’t have cleaned up a crime scene to keep him from being caught.”

Sansa nodded, feigning shock like a pro.  “It’s so hard for me to believe that Jon would participate in a vote rigging scheme. Do you have proof that the machines were actually rigged?”

He hesitated, trying to decide how much to trust her.  Then he made a mistake.  “Yes.”

He asked her to wait a moment and walked back to his home office.  She waited, listening.  She heard four beeps as a code was entered, then the sound of a door opening.  A minute later, he returned holding a laptop and an SD card which he showed her.  He popped the SD card into the slot and started the Skytech emulator, explaining the steps as he did.

Sansa pretended to be surprised and watched what he did with fascination that she didn’t feel.  As JSA’s investigator, what he was doing was incredibly simple to her, but she patiently listened to his explanations anyway.

She gasped when the altered the vote counts were returned by the program.  “And you are saying that all the cards act like this, alter the vote counts in this way?”

“We believe so, yes.”

“I just can’t believe that Jon would do this.”

“Like I said, I can’t prove that he was involved.  For all I know, he wasn’t.  But I do think that he knew, at the very least.  Perhaps the false exit polls were ordered as part of a cover-up attempt and that’s the extent to which he was involved.”

_Sharp.  Nice work, Willas._

For a brief moment, Sansa wondered if she should feel guilty.  She discarded the thought.  She was only acting in kind.  He was trying to take advantage of their relationship to further his investigation, just as she was going to use it to thwart it. 

_I warned you._

_“If there’s going to be something between us, you need to understand that I’m going to do my job as well as I can for my clients.  If that means going against you – or anyone – that’s what I’ll do.”_

_I couldn’t have been more clear._

_Jon would reject this idea, but in this situation, he isn’t the crisis manager, he’s the crisis.  He’s the client.  So no, Willas, I’m not going to help you.  I’m going to do exactly what I told you I was going to do._

“Willas, I’m going to talk to Jon,” she said.  “I can convince him to cooperate with you.  Whatever his involvement in all this might be, I know he would want the murderer of innocent people to be brought to justice.”

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said.  “I’m glad that I talked to you about this.”

“Me too.”  She pulled on her coat and picked up her bag.  “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.  Don’t you want a ride home?”

“No, that’s okay.  I’m going to head to the office for a bit.  It’s not far from here.  I can walk.”  He nodded and walked her out, insisting on walking her the five blocks to the JSA office.  Sansa wasn’t afraid of walking five blocks through Flea Bottom in the dark; she knew how to defend herself.  Another lesson learned from her time with Petyr.  But she decided to humor Willas.

When they arrived at the shabby building that housed her home away from home, Willas wished her good night with a kiss.  She smiled and bid him good night.  When she saw that he was a block away, she pulled out her phone as she entered the building.  Jon picked up on the first ring.

“Get down here now.  We need to talk.”

***

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.  Of course I am.”

“Sansa, I would never ask you to do this.”

“I know.  That’s one of the many things that makes it infuriating.  I have to be the one to decide to do this to myself.”

“I’m sorry.”

She glared at him.  “Sorry doesn’t matter.  Let’s move on.”

He sighed.  “Alright.  Are you sure he keeps it in a safe?  Did you see it?”

“I didn’t see the safe.  But I heard four electronic beeps, heard the door opening and closing, and saw him walk out with the card.”

He nodded.  “You think you’ll be able to get into it without seeing it first?”

“Piece of cake.”

“He’s going to know it was you.”

“No shit.”

“Any security cameras at the complex?  Inside?”

“Not that I saw, but I’ll take Sandor to be sure.”

“Sounds like you have everything figured out.”

“I do.”

“Thank you, Sansa.”

She shook her head.  “You know, the sad part is that I think Willas might even be genuine about what he said.  He’s got everything figured out, even the fact that you were an unwilling participant in the conspiracy.  He probably does want more than anything to bring Frey to justice, which would reduce the potential assassination risk to the president and anyone else Frey might be targeting.  It’s worth thinking about.”

Jon sighed.  “Ethically, I can’t talk about the conspiracy to anyone.  And Daenerys is completely innocent in this.  She would be impeached despite the fact that she won fair and square.  That she didn’t know and that she won by a wide enough margin for the tampering not to have had an effect won’t matter.  I can’t do that do her.  Personally, I don’t have anything to worry about, but I don’t want Daenerys to pay for what other people decided to do.”

“What do you mean that you ‘personally don’t have anything to worry about’ and ‘ethically, you can’t talk about the conspiracy to anyone?’  I thought we had to cover your ass.”

“Come on, Sansa.  You think I let these idiots expose me?”

“Willas has the fake exit polls.  They expose you.”

“It’s not illegal to order a fake exit poll.  Sansa, are we lawyers or are we bitches?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“No.”

“We’re lawyers.”

“Exactly.  But I can do you one better than that.  _I’m_ Trystane Martell’s lawyer.”

Sansa shook her head and laughed.  “Attorney-client privilege.  That’s brilliant.  How’d you swing that?”

“After they told me about their plot, I threatened to tell Daenerys.  Trystane was all over me, telling me why I couldn’t.  I ignored him and walked out of the meeting, intending to tell her.  Then, I realized he was right.  It would make her a conspirator and implode her campaign.  So, later that evening, I came upon him again in the hallway.  I said that I would protect Daenerys from their conspiracy, but I wasn’t about to commit any felonies on _his_ behalf.  That’s how it came to be that for the last two years, I have been contracted to provide legal services and advice to the eminent Mr. Martell.”

“And he paid you for these _legal services?”_

“Handsomely.”

“And what sort of legal advice did you give him?”

“Probably the best I’ve ever given anyone.”

“Which was?”

“That he should go fuck himself.”

***

Trystane had always wondered how baby kissing had become a tradition in political campaigning.  It had been a long day; this was the third out of four stops today on his first “whistlestop” tour – something traditionally done by train, but for the sake of convenience, Jon had arranged to use buses. At each stop – Ghost Hill, Shandystone, and here at Godsgrace – dozens of babies had been presented to him for the perfunctory kiss.  He mused that if he had a child of such a young age, he would most likely avoid having strangers get their germs on him or her.  The good people of Godsgrace had no such hesitations.  A woman passed him a girl of about six months clad in a pink and yellow ruffled dress. 

“Well, hello there little one,” he said to the infant.  “You’re a pretty one.  What’s your name?”

“Mayra,” the mom supplied, beaming.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mayra.”  He gave the baby a peck on the forehead, handed the her back to her mother, and thanked her for coming out.

He finished greeting the supporters who wanted to say hello and shake his hand.  His right hand was aching by the time they got back on the bus. He stretched it and winced.  Jon regarded him sympathetically, plucked a bag of frozen peas from the freezer compartment of a small mini-fridge, and handed it to him.

“I was wondering why we had a bag of frozen peas on the bus,” Trystane said.  He looked out the window as the last of the campaign staff got on the second bus.  The bus, like his own, was covered in a colorful red, orange, and black wrap that boldly proclaimed _“Trystane Martell – Believe in Dorne.”_   Jon had said the slogan was fine to start off with and they could always change it up based on polling.  Trystane was looking forward to that.  There was something about it he found irksome.  Perhaps it was that it was a bit corny.  _Meh.  All campaign slogans are corny.  It’s fine._ When its door closed, the bus started moving.  Their own bus followed, with only its driver, Jon, Joss, Gascoyne, and Trystane aboard.

Jon held a cold can of sparkling water to his forehead a few seconds before cracking it open and drinking about half in one gulp, to Trystane’s amusement.  _Perhaps 82-degrees is warm for late fall even in Dorne, but fuck’s sake.  It goes up to 120 in Godsgrace in summer.  Northerners._ “Hold on to those peas for about twenty minutes,” he said, gulping down more of his drink.  “If it still hurts, you can take some ibuprofen.”

Trystane reclined in his seat.  “I am somewhat familiar with icing procedure.  I do have small children, you know.  We just always used proper ice packs.”

“Peas are better,” Jon insisted.  “Plus, if you’re hungry afterward, you can eat them.”

“That would be useless with Nym and Egg.  They would sooner starve to death than eat peas.  They might eat the gel from an ice pack, but not a green vegetable.”

“Why don’t they like vegetables?”

Trystane laughed. “They’re green things that grow out the ground, and therefore, poisonous to children.  Trust me on this.”

Jon’s face twisted into a grimace before he looked away awkwardly.

Trystane sighed. “Spit it out, Jon.  You’ve been acting weird all day.  Weirder than normal, which is really saying something.  Just tell me.”

Jon looked up at the bus’s ceiling as though seeking help from the gods.  After a moment, he looked back at him and spoke.  “I talked with Daenerys about her plans when we went to Winterfell.  She said that she wanted a divorce.”

Trystane inhaled sharply, but otherwise did his best not to react.  _That’s hardly a surprise.  But clearly, that’s not all of it._

“I was able to convince her to put it off until after her reelection campaign.”

Trystane nodded and squeezed the sweating bag of peas.  He wished that whatever it was, Jon would just get to the point.

Jon continued.  “Seeing as how she imagines that you would welcome such a delay, she would like something in return.”

What Trystane really wanted to do was chuck the peas out the window and trade them for a glass of scotch, but he decided against it for the moment.  “If you have in mind to dump Frey and have me pay for everything, that’s perfectly fine.  I anticipated that you’d want to do that.”

“Yes, and she appreciates that.  But she wants something else as well.”

Trystane stared at him expectantly.  _What?  Five hundred million dragons isn’t enough?  Could be more than that in the end, though Snow is no slouch at fundraising._ Jon opened his mouth and closed it a few times, unable to articulate whatever it was that he wanted to ask.  After the third time, Trystane’s anxiety melted away because he didn’t have to worry about what the request was; at this point, he could guess.

“Must be pretty bad if it has master communicator Jon Snow tongue-tied.”

Jon dragged his hands through his hair, exasperated.  “I told her I would talk to you about this, but I don’t think I can.”  He shook his head.  “I’ll tell her to call you,” he muttered.

“I’m sure it will be better coming from you,” he said.  _Talking with Daenerys at this point will just makes things worse, especially if it is what I think it is_.  “Just tell me.”

Jon winced, but then decided to relent.  “Daenerys wants a baby.”

_See, that wasn’t so hard._ He felt his mouth curling into a smirk.  “Unsurprising, but I expect you’re better equipped, as it were, to assist her with that.”

Jon let out a long-suffering sigh.  “Trystane…”

He chuckled and put his hands up in surrender.  Condensation from the bag of peas ran down his arm.  “Okay, okay.  I get it.  My wife has in mind to whelp a little gray-eyed Martell.  That’s perfectly fine.”

Jon sighed again. “Ideally, a purple or brown-eyed one. But yes.”

“Your mother has brown eyes, Snow?”

“No, my father does.  Not quite the same shade as yours, but close enough.”

“I thought you didn’t know who he was.”

Jon’s face twisted angrily.  “I’ve never met him, and don’t care to.  But I know his name, what he looks like.” 

Trystane raised an eyebrow.  “Curiouser and curiouser.  Who is he?”  A moment passed as Jon ground his teeth together.  Trystane shrugged.  “Never mind, I probably wouldn’t recognize the name anyway, right?”

“You’d recognize it.”  He bit it out with finality and Trystane decided not to push the matter further.  _If he meant to reveal it, he would have.  And who cares, anyway?_

“Well, like I said, it’s perfectly fine.  I was expecting this, honestly.”

Jon lifted an eyebrow.  “You were?”

“In some ways, my dear wife can be predictable.  The only thing surprising to me is that you agreed.  But perhaps that isn’t too shocking.”

Jon shrugged helplessly.  “I tried to refuse.”

“It’s fine,” he repeated.  “So, do you two have a name picked out?  Maybe ‘Jon’ for a boy.  For a girl, I don’t know… Jonelle?”  He gave Jon a mocking grin, unable to resist teasing him a bit more.

“No,” he said quickly. “Something Dornish.  Mors or Lewyn.  Mellario for a girl.”

He laughed.  “Mors Martell.  Doesn’t get any more Dornish than that.  Mellario is actually a Norvoshi name, but I like it.  I think my mother would have appreciated such a tribute, particularly under the circumstances.  She had a wicked sense of humor and loved nothing better than things that irritated my father.  Things like this.”

Jon blew out a long, pained breath.  Trystane got up, poured two glasses of scotch, and handed Jon one.  “Relax.  Daenerys probably told you this, but I’ve been wanting another child.  If no agonizing medical interventions are needed, so much the better.  I would never think of Mors/Lewyn/Mellario any differently than my other children, you know.  And you can see him or her whenever you like.  It’s not as bad as you’re probably making it out to be in your head.”

“The one thing I never wanted to do is father a bastard.”

“It won’t be a bastard, just like Myrcella Baratheon isn’t a bastard.  And I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I like to think I’m a better father than Robert Baratheon.  At least I’ve never been found passed out drunk in an alley behind a whorehouse covered in my own piss.  Yet.”

Jon shrugged and sipped his scotch.  “It’s not too late.”

“Isn’t it your job to discourage me from doing things like that?”

“No.  I’m not your mother.”

Jon resumed his brooding visage, swirling his drink and staring at it.

Trystane shook his head sadly.  “If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to.  It’s a big decision.  You should be sure.”

“I agreed.  What’s done is done.”

Trystane furrowed his brow.  “It’s okay to tell her ‘no,’ you know.”

“It’s really not.  She nearly died.  And after what I asked her to do…”  He trailed off, but Trystane understood what he meant regardless.  “This is the only thing she asked for.  How can I say no?  It’s not like it costs me anything.”

Trystane thought for a moment to tell him that he was wrong, that it didn’t cost him nothing, but he knew there wasn’t any point.  _Why try to talk him out of something he’s already decided to do, something that Daenerys and I both want?  He’s too stubborn to change his mind, anyway._

Jon knocked back the rest of his drink, and their conversation moved on to topics related to the campaign.  By the time they reached The Tor, it was as if the awkward exchange had never occurred.

***

When Jon saw it was Sansa calling, he moved to the back room of the bus and closed the door.

“Sansa, tell me you got it.”

“Not exactly, but I have something that might be better.  When I got to Willas’ office, I saw that he had mountains of financials about Frey.  It’s going to take me some time to go through and scan everything relevant with my phone.  Even if he isn’t looking for the connection to the assassin, there could be something in there that we could use.”

“Brilliant.  And the card was there?”

“Yes.  I left it there for the time being.  If it disappears, he’ll know I was there, and I won’t be able to get in again.”

“It’ll be enough time. He’s still building his case.  Has he said anything else to you?”

“I’ve been stalling. I used your trip to Dorne as an excuse. I told him you were thinking it over and I was certain you would decide to work with him.”

“Perfect.”  He thought for a moment, then had an idea so good, he wanted to kick himself for not thinking of it before.

“Sansa, did you get a photo of the card?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you could make a duplicate?”

“Yeah.  That’s a great idea, actually.  He won’t even have any idea that we took it.”

“Wait to make the switch until you have all the documents.”

“Of course.  As soon as do, that card is being cut into bits and banished to bowels of King’s Landing’s sewer system.”

Jon laughed.  “I think not.  Put it in my safe.  It should be fine there temporarily until I can get on a plane to Braavos and put in my safe deposit box at the Iron Bank.”

“Why keep it?  Isn’t it much safer to be rid of it?”

Jon was quiet and Sansa exhaled sharply.  “You want it.”

“Of course I want it.  Don’t you?”

“Willas not having it is enough for me.  It’s not much use if you don’t want to expose the president.”

“I’m not going to expose the president, but I want to be ready for every contingency.  It’s better to have it than not have it.  It’s an insurance policy.  No different than the Lannister paternity tests.  I want it.”

“To blackmail your friends?”

“If I need to.  Life is unpredictable.  Are we bitches?”

“No.”

“I knew you would understand, Sansa.”

***

Robb, Arya, Sam, Satin, and Sandor crowded around Sansa as she popped in the Skytech card and booted up the emulator.  She ran through a series of voting scenarios, each returning a Targaryen victory.  Robb whistled when the results were displayed on the screen.

Sam shook his head in disbelief.  “I wish I could say I can’t believe Chella would do this, but she would have.  And apparently did.”

“I don’t know what Frey paid her for this, but whatever it was, he should have paid more,” Robb said.

“Actually, we do know what Frey paid her, because I have his records detailing the transaction,” Sansa said.  She pulled up a folder of scanned bank records.

“One of the things the government took into evidence during the Skytech bombing investigation was Chella’s laptop.  With that, the government should have been able to find her bank account numbers.  An Iron Bank numbered account statement on her laptop matches one Frey transferred a million dragons into three days before the election.”

“Why in seven hells didn’t this come into evidence when they were trying me for the bombing, then?” Sam asked, indignant.

“It’s possible that he didn’t know.  He may not know now.  The file was in an encrypted, hidden folder.  I found it, but that doesn’t mean that Willas did.”

“That isn’t all, though,” Arya said grimly.  “That same account of Frey’s was used to make two separate payments to another numbered account.  One was made the day before the Skytech bombing in the amount of two million dragons.  The second – to the same account – was made the day of the president’s nameday gala.  That one was ten million dragons.”

Satin’s eyes widened.  “He hired the same assassin for the Skytech bombing and to shoot the president?”

“Yes,” Arya said.

“That’s confirmed?” Sandor asked.

“Yes,” Arya said.  “I keep in touch with a few people from the House of Black and White.  One of them owed me a favor.  Hacking into the Iron Bank isn’t a small ask, but my friend was willing to do it.  The account belongs to Mero of Braavos, better known as the Titan’s Bastard.  He once commanded the mercenary company the Second Sons, but when the company’s reputation suffered under his leadership, he was fired.  Since his firing, he has been rumored to have been working as an assassin for hire.”

“We have our smoking gun, then,” Robb said.  “But there’s a problem.  If we turn this over to the federal police, what’s to stop Frey from exposing the conspiracy to save his own ass?”

“Why would they give him immunity for multiple murders and the attempted assassination of the president for testimony regarding a failed attempt to rig an election?” Sansa asked.  “He doesn’t have any incentive to admit to another crime.”

“Whether he has incentive or not, we don’t know that he won’t,” Robb argued.

“We’re all exposed on this,” Arya said.  “Robb is right.  He might just decide to take all his co-conspirators down with him, even without immunity.”

“We’re not exposed,” Sansa said.  “We’re the only ones who know that we know.  Willas can make a case that Jon knows, but he’s covered by the privilege.”

“What about President Targaryen?” Satin asked.

“I’m not sure what we can do about that,” Sansa said.  “We need to talk to Jon.  He’ll be back tomorrow.”

***

Jon arrived home late that night.  It was a relief to be back; every moment on the campaign trail was filled with anxiety.  He trusted his team to manage the investigation, but he worried about Sansa, worried she would be caught, worried that they would run out of time.

Robb had called him to let him know that they had Frey’s financials connecting him to the assassin and that Arya had even learned the name of the assassin.  The fake Skytech card had been planted, and according to Sansa, Willas was none the wiser.

How to keep a lid on election rigging when they turned over their evidence to the federal police was a problem.  The moment he realized Frey had hired the assassin, he had known it would be.  He needed leverage – something that he could use to keep Frey quiet even if he was going down for murder.

He took out his phone and tapped on a number.  Tyrion sounded like he had been asleep when he answered.

“Jon,” he said tiredly.  “What can I do for you at…”  He paused a moment, likely to check the time.  “One-fifteen a.m.?”

“We need to meet.  It’s about Harrenhal.”

Tyrion was immediately set on edge.  “What about Harrenhal?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.  I’ll come to you.”

“I’ll meet you outside.  I don’t want to wake Shae.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Ghost slipped quietly down the deserted streets of King’s Landing, finally coming to a stop in front of Tyrion Lannister’s ostentatious house not far from the Red Keep.  The gate had been left open for him and Tyrion was waiting outside, shivering in a thick overcoat.

“Make this quick, I’m freezing.”

“Willas Tyrell has continued to investigate Harrenhal and now has enough evidence to possibly convince even Attorney General Tully to bring a case against Frey.  The only thing he doesn’t have is the Skytech card.  Do you have anything on Frey to keep him quiet?”

“I thought Tyrell _did_ have the Skytech card.  Shae said that she gave it to him.”

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“He has a blank SD card that Sansa bought at Best Buy with a sticker with the Skytech logo printed on it.”

Tyrion breathed out suddenly in relief.  “Please tell me that the blasted thing is at the bottom of Blackwater Bay.”

Jon snorted.  “I’m afraid not.”

“You motherfucker,” Tyrion bit out, grimacing.

Jon shrugged.

“Why should I help you if you insist on holding on to the Skytech card?”

“Maybe _because_ I have it.  But there’s a better reason.”

“What would that be?”

“Wouldn’t you like the person who tried to kill President Targaryen to go to prison?”

“You know who did it,” Tyrion breathed.

Jon gave him a short nod.

“Who?”

“It was Walder Frey.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I’m afraid not.  Tyrell has bank statements connecting Frey to Chella Blackear.  These bank statements also connect Frey to the Skytech assassin.  What he doesn’t know is that it’s the same assassin that he used to try to kill President Targaryen.”

“I don’t have anything I can use to keep him quiet if he gets arrested for attempting to kill the president.  It would be an extraordinarily bad idea for him to be arrested for it in any case.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re one of the president’s top advisors.  I know that I don’t need to explain this to you.  Frey is well-known to be a supporter of the president.  Aside from her own husband, he was her top campaign donor.  He’s the wealthiest single person in Westeros and runs one of its largest businesses.  If he’s arrested for trying to kill the president, it will be a scandal that will take years for the country to recover from.”

“You propose to just let him get away with it?”

“No.”

“What, you want to have him killed?  Are you crazy?”

“You don’t?”

“I’d cut his heart out with a butter knife if I could.  I’d do it myself.”

“Then do it.  That’s the solution here, and you know it.”

“I’m not a killer,” Jon objected.  _Not yet.  There’s only one person I’m going to kill, but I don’t need to tell Tyrion about that._

“Bullshit, Jon.  Perhaps you haven’t literally murdered anyone, but you _are_ a killer.  Look at what you’re doing with the Skytech card.  A normal person would have set it on fire.  You’re a killer.  That’s just who you are.”

“You’re wrong.  I’m not killing anyone.  It looks like I wasted my time here.  I’ll find another way.  Frey is going to prison, count on it.”

***

“Hello Sandor.”

Sandor nodded.  “Ma’am.”

“Thank you for meeting me.”

“Not sure why you want to see me.  I don’t work for you anymore.”

“I thought you might like to thank me.”

“I was wondering why I wasn’t being questioned in the bowels of the Red Keep.  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“If anyone is going to figure out who tried to kill the president, it’s going to be Jon.  If you were arrested, it would be a distraction.  I knew you didn’t do it, so I made sure no one else would come to the conclusion that you had.  Whoever set you up was thorough.  But they don’t have the resources of WS-125, do they?”

“Few do.”

“JSA comes close.  Tell me, have you found the assassin yet?”

Sandor gave her an annoyed look.  “If we had, you think I would tell you?  Or anyone?”

Lyanna shook her head sadly.  “Sandor, I admire your loyalty to Jon.  He’s my son, and I would never ask you to betray him.  But if the person who did this is any one of the people I suspect, Jon’s methods of dealing with the problem are not going to work.  In fact, they would present a serious threat to the Republic.  And you know what my job is.”

“Yes.”

“This can’t be handled Jon’s way.  It needs to be handled _our_ way.” 

Sandor merely grunted in response.

“You know as well as I do that world leaders aren’t killed by disturbed lone gunmen.  There’s a reason why that’s how it always appears to the public.  It’s a narrative that people find palatable.  Even if it doesn’t make much sense, it’s easier for Jeyne in Fairmarket to swallow.  That our institutions are fragile, that the powerful are even more corrupt than she feared – it’s too bitter of a pill.  Jeyne isn’t like us.  She takes her kids to school, goes to her dull desk job, and watches trashy reality TV in the world that I make safe for her.  Jeyne in Fairmarket can’t handle the truth.”

“I agree with you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you anything.”

“There are only three people that I think may have done it.  Just tell me which one.”

Sandor answered her with stony silence.

“Sandor, I need to know who murdered my grandchild.  When I say the name, just nod if I’m right.”

“Your grandchild?”  Sandor looked at her in disbelief.

“Yes.  I’m not surprised Jon didn’t tell you.  But I’m telling you.  The person who did this to my family is not going free.  He’s not going to prison.  He’s going to explain his misdeeds to the gods, and soon.  Three names.  Just nod.”

“Oberyn Martell.” 

Sandor didn’t move.

“Tywin Lannister.” 

He didn’t budge and continued to stare at her.

“Walder Frey.”

Sandor narrowed his eyes, turned on his heel, and left Lyanna without saying another word.

***

When Jon woke, it was early.  The sky was still black over the sleeping city.  He decided to get an early start on the day and go for a run.  He put on sweats and running shoes and headed outside to the trail that cut through park behind his building.

It was cold enough to keep most denizens of the capital off the trail at this early hour.  The sun having been absent as long it would be, it was the coldest hour of the day.  Winter would soon come to King’s Landing.

Jon didn’t find it particularly cold.  Having grown up at Winterfell and spending so much time near the Wall, Jon knew just how much colder it could get.  He smiled with amusement at the few passers-by hardy enough to brave the chill.  They were bundled up in puffer jackets and heavy wool coats with scarves.  Jon had worn a hooded sweatshirt over a t-shirt.  After a few minutes of running, even the hoodie seemed too warm.

When a sliver of pale light appeared on the eastern horizon, Jon returned home, showered, and dressed for work.  Today was the day.  He could feel it.  The monster who had hired an assassin to shoot Daenerys and had killed their child would be brought to justice.  If Jon had his way, Frey would have met his end in the way he had described to Tyrion.  It was enough, though less satisfying, that he would face justice by the Republic of Westeros.  Jon had almost everything he needed.  The last piece would fall into place this morning.

He knew that Arya had stayed late working after everyone else had gone, so he was surprised to see the light on in her office window as he walked towards the building.  When he arrived at their floor, Ned Dayne was there banging on the door.

“Hey Ned,” Jon said.  “Did Arya not pick up her phone?  Her light is on.  She always turns it off, so I think she’s here.”  Jon unlocked the door as Ned answered.

“She said she would be home around midnight and asked me to wait at her apartment to watch Khaleesi,” Ned said.  “I fell asleep and she still hadn’t come home by 5:30 a.m. when I woke up.  I’ve been here knocking on the door for fifteen minutes.”

Jon pushed the door open to find the office had been ransacked.  Papers littered the floor, chairs had been overturned, and the phones had been unplugged.  Jon and Ned both ran to Arya’s office where they found her bound with duct tape on the floor, a piece of duct tape covering her mouth.

Ned removed the tape from Arya’s mouth while Jon retrieved scissors to cut her free.  Jon cut the tape bindings from her wrists and ankles and Ned examined her worriedly as she stood up.  “Are you okay?” Ned asked.

“I’m fine,” Arya said, her eyes filled with fury.  She rubbed her wrists, which were red from being bound.  Bits of adhesive still clung to her skin.  “But someone won’t be.”

“What happened?” Jon asked.

“Three masked men broke in just as I was leaving,” Arya said.  “They must have known I had the alarm set, because they waited for me to open the door.  One held a knife to my throat and told me to disable the alarm.  He said if I put in the panic code, I’d be dead before the police could get out of their car.  I disabled it, and they tied me up and left me here on the floor.  I saw them walking around in here, and heard one doing something on my computer.  The others I could hear ransacking the other rooms.  They were here for about thirty minutes, then they left.  They must have locked the door behind them because I heard Ned knocking at the door and yelling.”

“They weren’t thieves,” Jon said.  “They didn’t take anything that I could see.  Even your laptop is still here.”

Arya sat at her computer and started it.  She entered her password and started checking her files.  “They didn’t copy anything,” she started to say and cursed.

“What?” Jon said.

Arya looked at Ned and winced.  He threw up his hands in surrender.  “Off the record, whatever it is.  Just don’t tell me to leave.  I want to stay here with you.”

Jon sighed and nodded.  Arya turned the laptop around for Jon to see.  Jon looked, and his eyes went wide.

Arya shoved her hands through her hair, pulling at it.  “Everything we had on Frey.  The phone records, the bank records, everything.  Wiped from the server.  I’ll go check the offsite backup and the safe.”  Arya left to check for the missing files and after a few minutes returned scowling. 

“It’s all gone,” she said, her face red with fury.  “Everything on Frey.  I have no idea how they could have hacked into our server _and_ backup.  I had my friend try it as a test and it took him days.  And he’s probably the world’s foremost professional hacker.  These people did it in less than a half hour and wiped every trace of what they did.  I can’t even figure out how they got in.”

“They opened the safe?” Jon was trying to figure out how this was possible.  His safe was the most secure that money could buy.  At least he had managed to move the Skytech card to his safe deposit box in time.  Though there plenty of other sensitive documents in there.  “Are my, uh…” he looked at Ned warily.  “…things still in there?  Unmolested?” 

Arya nodded grimly.  “Still sealed.  Exactly where you left it.  The other ones as well.  They only took the Frey records.  They even locked it afterwards.”

Jon balled his hands into fists, then released them and flexed his hands.  He took several deep breaths before leaning over Arya’s computer and opening the main server folder.  He clicked on files for several minutes in silence before turning the screen back towards Arya.

“They only wiped the Frey files,” Jon said quietly.  “Nothing else.  If Frey had done this, or any enemy of ours in general, everything would be gone.  That would have been easier, and it would have left less room for error.  They didn’t miss anything, but they easily could have.  Whoever did this only wants to stop us from catching Frey and turning him over to the federal police.  Hurting JSA isn’t their goal.”

“What are you saying?” Arya asked, suspicious.

“I know who did this,” Jon said.

Arya took in a sharp breath, realizing what Jon had.  “That explains why the guy tying me up didn’t hit me back after I broke his nose.  What are you going to do to her?”

“I’ll worry about that later,” Jon said.  “For now, I’m only concerned about Frey.”  He stormed out of Arya’s office and walked to the front. 

“Wait here, okay?” Arya said to Ned.  He tried to object but Arya held up a hand to silence him.  “I’ll only be a minute.  Just wait for me, okay?”  She walked to front of the office to find Jon.

Jon unlocked a drawer in Satin’s desk and pulled out Robb’s gun.  He replaced the clip and tucked it into his waistband behind his jacket.

“Jon, what are you doing?” she asked, alarmed.

“Remember what I said to you all at Winterfell?” he replied.  “This isn’t any different, not for me.  I could accept Walder Frey facing justice, spending his worthless life in prison.  That isn’t going to happen now.  I can’t let him get away with it.  I just can’t.”

She looked at him in shock.  “Jon, I know you and Daenerys are friends.  But she didn’t die.  Missandei didn’t die.”

“Osmund Kettleblack did.”

“That’s why you want to go to Frey Tower and try to shoot one of the most powerful men in Westeros?  Osmund Kettleblack?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Jon leaned over Satin’s desk, closed his eyes, and spread his hands out over the wooden surface.  Arya stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “Why?” she asked again in whisper.

Jon didn’t open his eyes. “Daenerys was pregnant,” he said, his voice barely audible.

Arya stepped back and straightened until her whole body was tense.  “Do you have another gun?”

Jon looked at her gratefully, his eyes pained.  “I appreciate that, but no.  I have to do this alone.  I’m going to do it in a way that I won’t be caught, but if something goes wrong, I don’t want to take anyone else down with me.  I have to do it myself.”

Arya looked at him sadly, her brows drawn together.  “Jon…”

He blew out a shaky breath. “Arya, if something goes wrong, I want you all to carry on without me.  Find Mance Rayder.  Figure out if the Boltons were involved.  Don’t worry about me.  Concentrate on what really matters.  That’s why we’re here.  That’s why we’re doing this.”

***

“Jon Snow, what can I do for you?” Frey said in the phony friendly manner that he had.

“Thank you for taking my call, Walder.  I know how busy you are.”

“I’m never too busy for the White Wolf.”

“I’m glad to hear that.  I wonder if I might trouble you for a meeting later today.”

“I hate to say it, but today isn’t good.  I’m quite busy wrapping things up here and tomorrow morning, I’m leaving to go back to the Green Fork.  I won’t be back in the capital again for several weeks.”

“It’s urgent that I meet with you.  It’s about Willas Tyrell’s investigation.”

“I don’t see the point in us meeting about that.  All that needs to be said about it has been.”

“There’s one thing that he doesn’t know yet.  I may not be able to tell him about the Harrenhal conspiracy, but there isn’t anything stopping me from telling him that you hired someone to try to assassinate President Targaryen.  Unless you want me to tell him all about it, you’ll meet with me tonight.”

If Frey was alarmed at what Jon had said, he didn’t let on.  “That’s even less reason to meet than I had before.  If you really think that I tried to kill your little girlfriend, there’s no way that this ‘meeting’ goes well for me.”

Jon kept his voice even and his tone reassuring.  “It’ll go fine for you.  We just need to clear the air.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Daenerys is divorcing Trystane.  I’m tired of sharing her.  Like it or not, I will have to continue to stomach you for a bit longer.  It’ll cost you, though.  He’s not likely to fork over much money for his ex-wife’s reelection campaign.  And with the prenup she signed, she’s not getting any of his cash.  If you and I are going to stay on friendly terms, you’ll have to make up the difference.”

“Such a cold, political animal you are.  How am I supposed to believe this?”

“Have I ever done anything to make you think I was anything other than a ‘cold, political animal?’  That’s how you can believe it.  Just tell me why you did it.”

“Any investigation into Harrenhal is moot if the president it was designed to benefit is no longer in office.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“Who were your co-conspirators?”

“I don’t need any co-conspirators.  They’re too much trouble.  I know that now from hard experience.  I find that others rarely have the stomach to do what needs to be done.”

“I have the stomach for it; I just disagreed with your assessment.  And I was right.  Daenerys won by thirty districts.  If I had thought that we needed it, I would have had no trouble going along with your plan.”

“You didn’t want to take out Tyrell.”

“It would have caused more problems than it would solve.  He’s not the only district attorney in King’s Landing.  Anyway, all of that is unimportant now.  What’s important is whether you and I are meeting tonight so that we can continue to work together, or if I’m taking my evidence against you to the district attorney’s office.”

Frey was quiet for a long moment, long enough that Jon wondered if the call had disconnected.

“Fine.  Be at my office at eight.”

***

“Thank you for receiving me, Madam President.”

Daenerys shook Walder Frey’s hand and bid him to have a seat.  Out of consideration for his significant contributions to her campaign, she often met with Frey about various things.  While she didn’t always go along with his requests, she was willing to give him a hearing.  She was slightly wary about this meeting after what Jon had said.

_“Frey is dishonest and unethical.  I don’t trust him.  He wants too much from you for his money.”_

It was true.  He had asked for quite a bit.  She didn’t mind appointing his son, Stevron, to the Small Council.  The Master of Coin was good at his job and gave her thoughtful advice that didn’t seem biased towards House Frey’s interests.  Walder himself had sought out many concessions on behalf of Frey Petroleum, some reasonable and some not.

She settled in behind her desk.  “How can I help you, Walder?”

“I had hoped to never have to tell you about this, but you deserve to know the truth,” Frey said.  He pushed a folder across the desk towards Daenerys.

“You know about the software company in the Vale that was bombed,” he said.  “Skytech.” 

She nodded.  She knew that Jon’s friend had been accused of being the bomber, but that the case had been dismissed. 

“You probably don’t know why it was bombed.  Samwell Tarly didn’t bomb that building.  It was bombed because his girlfriend Chella Blackear threatened to reveal to the press what she had done to rewrite their voting machine software so that it could be used to rig an election.”

“Blackear rigged an election?  Which one?”

“Yours,” he replied.

Daenerys stopped breathing.  She stared at Walder Frey, then at the folder.  “What’s this?” she asked quietly.

“Falsified exit polling data from the Riverlands,” he said.  “You have likely seen these before, but what you haven’t seen is who prepared them.”  He pulled out a printed email.  “Sandor Clegane.  He prepared these fake polls so that the election results would match the exit polls.”  Daenerys looked at the email from Sandor requesting the voting machine data.  _Sandor Clegane.  Jon’s friend._ A cylinder clicked into place.

Daenerys struggled to keep her voice even.  She knew what Frey’s answer would be before she asked the question, but she knew she had to ask anyway.  “At whose behest?”

“Jon Snow,” he said. 

“You’re saying that Jon was involved in rigging the election?” she asked.

“Yes,” Frey said.  “It was his idea.  He planned it all, down to these exit polls.  He recruited me, Olenna, Trystane, and Tyrion into his scheme. We shouldn’t have agreed, but we did. Now that Willas Tyrell is onto it and it’s all about to be exposed, I wanted to tell you the truth myself while I still had the chance.  You deserve the truth.  You’re innocent in all this.”

_“That’s sweet, Jon.  Irresponsible, but sweet.”_

_“I knew that you would win.  I believe in you, Daenerys.”_

_He didn’t write a speech I’d never give because he knew I would win.  He rigged the election._

_No.  No, Jon wouldn’t have done that._

She shook her head as if to clear the incogitable idea from her mind.  “Why did he ask you to participate?”

“He needed money to pay Blackear,” Frey said.  “When she asked for more money after the election was held and threatened to go to the press if she wasn’t paid, I hired a man named Mero to give her the money that she had asked for and impress upon her that she was not to contact me again nor request any further payment.  Mero kept all the money for himself and sent a bomb to Skytech with Blackear’s name on it and Tarly’s name in the return address.”

“You hired an assassin to threaten a woman and instead he blew up a building and killed all those people?” Daenerys asked, her voice nearly a whisper.  “Why?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

Daenerys shook her head in disbelief, trying to force herself to remain calm.  Her first thought was to hit the intercom to have Irri send in the Presidential Guard and have them arrest Frey.  He’d just admitted to a conspiracy that resulted in the murder of several people.  What she really needed was someone to advise her.  But according to Walder, every person she trusted for advice was complicit in the scheme.  She decided to wait and see what else he would reveal.

Frey continued.  “I was trying to clean up the mess I had made by agreeing to Jon’s scheme.  You didn’t deserve to be implicated in election fraud that you had no part in.  The bomber set Tarly up.  Jon found out what happened and must have had a crisis of conscience about what he’d done, because he and Olenna got Tarly off the hook for it.  That’s why the judge threw out the case.”

“Jon and Olenna coerced a judge into throwing out a murder case?”

“That’s the only explanation I can find for what happened.  There isn’t much precedent for a case being tossed in that fashion.  I know that Tyrell thought the same, because that’s why he started his investigation that revealed the election rigging.”

As much sense as it made, Daenerys struggled to believe him.  “Why did he involve the others?”

“Cover if the plot ever came to light,” he said.  “Anyone who knew what he was planning would become a conspirator unless they turned him in.  No one wanted your campaign to be jeopardized, so they held their silence.  Olenna and Tyrion had no trouble agreeing.  Jon is very convincing, as you know.”

_Yes.  He is. I do know that._

“Trystane though, he refused at first.  He wanted to tell you, expose the plot before it could come to fruition.  Jon threatened him.  I don’t know exactly how, but he must have blackmailed him, I’m sure of it.”

“What do you think he used?” she asked.

“I couldn’t say, but Trystane has quite a reputation.  It could be any of several things.  Jon knows everything about everyone; you know that.  Hidden bastard, maybe.  That’s just my guess.”

Daenerys doubted the part about the bastard, but she knew Trystane had a lot to hide.  Jon’s entire business depended on collecting such dirt about every politician in Westeros.  _That explains why he wants to get Trystane elected.  He’ll have a senator in his pocket_.  A second cylinder clicked into place.  What she couldn’t understand was why.   “Why?  Why would Jon do this?”

“You know that better than I, Madam President,” he said.  “I didn’t understand it before, but when we all met at my office after Tyrell showed up at Frey Tower, I started to.  Trystane revealed that you and Jon were having an affair.  Jon was enraged.  He tried to choke Trystane and threw him against a wall.  If you don’t believe me, ask your husband.  He’ll tell you that it happened.”

She knew she wouldn’t need to ask Trystane anything.  This part of Walder’s story was easy to believe.  She could clearly envision Trystane smugly dropping this bombshell in a roomful of Daenerys’ closest advisors and taunting Jon with it.  Jon usually displayed careful self-control, but she could see how something like this would make him snap.  It certainly explained why Trystane had been so chummy with him recently.  _He’s afraid, plain and simple._

The rest, however, was harder for her to wrap her mind around.  _Everything Frey is saying sounds entirely plausible if one doesn’t know Jon.  Jon wouldn’t do this to me.  He wouldn’t do it at all.  I need more than an email and some polling data if I’m going to believe this story._

“How can I know that you’re telling the truth?”

Frey pulled a plastic case from his pocket and handed it to her.  “This is a Skytech card from one of the voting machines in God’s Eye North.  Harrenhal and the three districts around it all had the rigged cards.  All the others were destroyed, or at least I thought they were.  One was missed, and that’s the one Willas Tyrell has.  I kept this card for myself as an insurance policy.”

Daenerys fingered the card delicately.  “Four districts were rigged?  That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“So, it didn’t matter,” she said as though talking to herself.  “I won by thirty districts.  He betrayed me for nothing.”

“No, not nothing, Madam President,” Frey said.  “Jon knew damn well you could win that election fair and square.  This gives him leverage over you.”

The final cylinder clicked into place and Daenerys finally understood.  _That’s what Jon does.  That’s what he is.  A fixer.  Dirt, blackmail, leverage.  Those are his tools.  I knew this already, I just never thought he used them against me.  The Lannister paternity tests – Myrcella Baratheon is one of his best friends.  He didn’t even blink at the idea of exposing her as the incestuous byproduct of her mother’s affair with her twin brother.  If he’d do that to her, why not me?_

_What a fool I was.  I screamed at Trystane and threw him out, and he was the one who at least tried to protect me.  Just like he always has.  I trusted Jon, and all the while, he’s had the mother of all scandals held to the back of my neck like a headsman’s axe.  And I didn’t even realize it.  How naïve I’ve been.  How stupid._

“I thank you for your candor, Walder,” she said, and stood, indicating that their meeting was at an end.

Frey bowed his head respectfully.  “Madam President.” 

***

Jon drove to Frey Tower, the route there burned in his mind like a net carved by acid.  He didn’t speed; each turn was deliberate.  The gun felt heavy against his back.  He felt only the slightest bit of guilt over lying to Arya.  He didn’t have a plan.  He wasn’t an assassin.  What plan could he have?  The only thing he had in mind to do was walk into Frey’s office, put a bullet in his head, then go home and wait until the city police came to arrest him.

The curb in front of Frey Tower was red, but Jon didn’t care if he got a ticket.  He parked, killed the engine, and took a calming breath.  He waited a minute before opening the car door.

Jon took five steps toward the tower when he heard a faint sound that sounded like screaming.  He saw a flicker from the corner of his eye; the rustling of fabric.  He looked up in time to see the last fifteen feet of the body’s descent.  Jon could see that ninety-five floors up, a neat hole had been carefully cut into one of the windows facing the street.  Walder Frey hit the pavement with a sickening crunch no more than a hundred feet from where Jon was standing.

He heard a woman’s scream and several people ran towards where the body had landed.  Jon remained still, too stunned to move or think.  His phone rang, and he saw the call was from an unknown number.  He answered.

“Snow,” he said thickly.

“Did he scream?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Good.  Go home before you get a parking ticket, Jon.”  The call disconnected.

He tucked his phone back into his pocket and returned to his car.  He pulled away from the curb just as he heard the first sirens approaching.

***

Jon arrived at the Red Keep early, knowing that the press would have many questions about the shocking suicide of the CEO of Frey Petroleum and noted supporter of the president.  He wanted to have time to prepare before making an official statement.  Already, all the news outlets were running stories of Frey’s death.  Although the text of the note had not been made available, a suicide note had reportedly been found in his office.

Jon sat down at his desk and his intercom buzzed.  The voice of Daenerys’ secretary, Irri, came through the speaker.  “Mr. Snow?  The president would like to see you in her office right away.”

“I’ll be right there,” he answered her.

Irri opened the door to Daenerys’ office and Jon walked inside.  Daenerys sat her desk, scribbling notes onto a yellow legal pad.

“Sit down,” she ordered, not looking up.  Realizing something was wrong, Jon sat and remained quiet while Daenerys continued to write for several minutes.  Finally, she looked up and regarded Jon impassively.  She pushed a typed letter across the desk.

“I’ve decided to accept your resignation,” she said with no emotion in her voice.  “You need to clear out your things and leave the Red Keep immediately.  Barristan will escort you out.”

Jon picked up the letter and quickly scanned it.  It was a one-sentence statement saying that his resignation had been accepted with Daenerys’ signature at the bottom.  “Daenerys, what is this about?”

“Harrenhal,” she hissed, eyes narrowed.  “I know what you did.  I’ve seen the exit polls.  I have the Skytech card.  Walder Frey told me everything.  Before you killed him, presumably.”

“Daenerys, let me explain,” he said.

She let out a short bark of laughter.  “So, you admit it.”

“No!” Jon said in a rush. “I only did what I did to protect you.  That’s all those polls were.  To cover up what _he_ did.  I didn’t kill Frey.”

Daenerys stood.  “I’m afraid that our friendship can’t continue.  You need to leave.”

At the word _friendship,_ a chill ran through him and he resisted the urge to shudder.  “We should talk about this,” he said.  “I don’t know what Frey told you.  I told him no.  I told them all no.  I wanted to tell you his plan, I did.  But I couldn’t; I had to protect you.”

Her nostrils flared just as he said _I wanted to tell you his plan, I did._

“I’ve heard enough,” she said sharply.  She hit a button on her phone.  “Send Barristan in.”

A second later, Barristan appeared in the office.  Daenerys addressed him calmly.  “Barristan, please see Mr. Snow out.  He has resigned his position.”

Jon remained stubbornly in his seat.  “Daenerys, please.  Just let me explain.”

Her face twitched with anger.  “You can either walk out with Barristan, or he can carry you out.  It makes no difference to me.”  She sat down and resumed writing on her notepad. 

Barristan moved closer to him.  “Jon, let’s go,” he said quietly.

Jon took in a deep breath and rose, glancing quickly at Barristan.  He nodded respectfully at Daenerys.  “Madam President.”  He turned and walked towards the door, Barristan following him and closing the door.  Daenerys never looked up.

Barristan waited patiently while Jon packed the few things in his office into a bankers box.  Laptop, briefcase, a phone charger, notes, a few shirts and ties.  He put on his coat, picked up the box, and went into the adjoining office where Satin was working, blissfully unaware.

“Satin, let’s go,” he said.  He set down his box, then grabbed another from a corner and removed the files inside, laying the files on top of a cabinet before handing it to Satin.  “President Targaryen is no longer in need of our services, it seems.”

Satin looked surprised and looked at the box and shook his head.  “I don’t have anything here.”

“Great, let’s go,” Jon said, dropping the empty box on the floor and picking up his own.

Tyrion came into the office just as they were approaching the doorway.  He was a little breathless, as though he had been running.  “The president would like Satin to stay,” he told Jon.  He turned towards Satin.  “President Targaryen is appointing Missandei as the new communications director.  She’d like you to stay on as press secretary.”

Satin took in a sharp breath that wasn’t quite a gasp.  He looked over at Jon questioningly.  Jon smiled and nodded.  “This is a great opportunity for you, Satin.  Congratulations.”

Satin stared at Jon a moment, his brow creasing slightly.  He looked back over at Tyrion.  “The president honors me with the offer, but unfortunately, I must decline.  Please give her my apologies.”  He put on his coat and stood next to Jon.

Tyrion sighed.  “Your loyalty to Jon is admirable, but as he himself just said, it’s a great opportunity for you.  Are you sure I can’t change your mind?”

Satin shook his head.  “Loyalty isn’t admirable, Mr. Lannister. It’s everything.  Please give President Targaryen my regards.”

Tyrion pursed his lips and left the office.  Jon and Satin followed him with Barristan on their heels.  They walked in silence to the outer gate.

“Mr. Snow, Mr. Flowers, I need your hard passes,” Barristan said.  Jon and Satin both pulled their lanyards off and handed them over.

“Thank you, Barristan,” Jon said.  Barristan nodded and closed the gate behind them.

They were both quiet until they arrived at Jon’s car.  Jon opened the trunk and put his box inside.  They got inside the car and Jon drove towards the parking structure’s exit.  He explained briefly to the parking attendant that he no longer had his pass before the attendant raised the barrier to let them out.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jon said once they were on the road.  “I wouldn’t have been upset.  It’s not nothing to be named the Red Keep Press Secretary.  You shouldn’t have turned it down.”

Satin sighed.  “I meant what I said.  Loyalty is everything.  I’m no Lannister of Casterly Rock or Targaryen of Dragonstone.  I don’t mean anything to those people.  You’re different.  You made your own name.  You took a chance on a 21-year-old prostitute.  When you needed someone you could trust, I was the one you chose, not one of the many deputy press secretaries who would have chomped at the bit to give an important press conference.  I don’t know why Targaryen fired you and I don’t care.  She’s wrong.  If she would turn on you, her friend, what would she do to me, someone she doesn’t care about at all?  Even if I could ignore that, I know that there’s no mission more important than JSA’s.  We need to find the people who killed Ned Stark.  That’s what matters, and I’m happy to get back to it, even if I’m just answering the phone for you.”

Jon was taken aback.  He’d lost sight of what really mattered, but Satin hadn’t.  _I was distracted by Daenerys and my desire to help her, to give her what she wanted, to be by her side.  But nothing has changed._ Now that the shooting was behind them and the perpetrator was dead, there was no longer any reason for him to be at the Red Keep other than his relationship with Daenerys.  A relationship that according to Daenerys, no longer existed.  He needed to prioritize what really mattered and go back to searching for Ned Stark’s murderers.

“I appreciate your loyalty, Satin,” Jon said.  “I’ll never forget it.  I want you to know that if you had decided to stay, I wouldn’t have ever stopped thinking of you as one of us.  As for President Targaryen, she had her reasons.  This is for the best.  You’re right.  We need to focus on finding Rayder and uncovering who else may have conspired in the Winterfell bombing.  That’s what matters.”

He had always known that Daenerys might find out about Harrenhal.  He had always known that if she did, she would blame him for not telling her from the beginning.  _I made a choice.  I protected her.  That’s the job.  A campaign manager protects the candidate.  You protect the candidate and you win the election.  There’s no room for feelings._

_I’m afraid that our friendship can’t continue._ That was all he meant to her.  Something so ephemeral and weak that seven words could sever it.  Jon navigated through the capital’s morning rush hour traffic, cursing when an asshole in a white BMW rudely cut him off.  _As much as Daenerys claims to despise Trystane, she had more to say to him.  At least she was angry at him.  To dispose of me, only seven dispassionate words were needed.  No more feeling than would be required to dismiss a mail room clerk that had misplaced an important letter._

_I’m afraid that our friendship can’t continue._

_I never meant anything to her.  She asked me for a fucking baby, a fucking bastard baby for her fucking husband to raise, and days later all we have together is a fucking “friendship” that “can’t continue.”_ A beat-up Hyundai in front of Jon remained stopped at a light after it had turned green.  Jon laid on the horn.  The driver looked up from the text she was composing to wave a middle finger at Jon before gunning it.

_Never forget what you are, bastard.  Satin is right,_ Jon thought as he stomped on Ghost’s accelerator to blast by the Hyundai and cut it off _.  I’m not one of them.  People like Satin and me are disposable in their eyes.  Useful and enjoyable, perhaps, but not important.  Seven words can return a person like me to the realm of peasants and bastards.  And that’s fine.  She was never mine.  She won’t ever be mine._

He reflected more on Daenerys’ insistence on having a baby.  _She was right.  It was reckless, and I should have said no and let that be the final word on it.  What the fuck was I thinking?  Oh, that’s right.  I wasn’t.  If I meant anything to her, she would never have asked me to do that.  The one thing I should have cared about, and I gave it up.  Why?  Because she would be sad?  For fuck’s sake._

_She’s no different than any other fucking politician in this town.  I was a fool not to have seen it before.  How naïve I’ve been.  How stupid.  It’s a damned good thing I kept that Skytech card.  One might almost be fooled that I had two brain cells to rub together._

Jon parked in his space at the building JSA called home.  He opened the trunk and retrieved his bankers box.

“Let me carry that for you,” Satin said, taking the box out of his hands.  They walked into the building and called for the antique elevator to carry them up.  Jon opened the door and followed Satin inside.  Satin handed Jon the box and took a seat at the receptionist’s desk.  Jon walked down the hallway to his office and placed the box on his desk.  He heard the phone ring and he could barely make out Satin’s voice answering the call.

“Jon Snow and Associates, this is Satin, how may I help you?”

_The work we do here is more important than placating reporters at the Red Keep.  It’s definitely more important than being Daenerys Targaryen’s paramour.  I should have remembered that on my own._

Jon unpacked his box and sat behind his desk.  He eyed the stack of work in his inbox as he booted up his computer.

_This is for the best._

“Jon, I have Trystane Martell for you on line one.”

_I’m afraid that our friendship can’t continue.  Fine._

“Put him through.”

***

A beautifully-tanned, olive skinned young woman in a flowing gauze dress escorted Jon through the Martell family retreat at the Water Gardens.  Retreat wasn’t quite the word for it, Jon thought as he was led through it.  Palace would be more apt.  As the richest family in Westeros, it was unsurprising.  Nonetheless, Jon was taken aback at the lavish furnishings, priceless artwork, and ornately designed marble floors polished to a diamond finish.

The woman, who had introduced herself as Mellei, led him through a set of glass doors into a neatly landscaped garden consisting of several terraces with numerous lemon, blood orange, and palm trees providing shade.  The garden gave way to a pale pink tiled walkway and an enormous dark blue bottomed infinity pool overlooking the Summer Sea.  There was a waterfall at the other edge of the pool, a wet bar behind it, and a few plush lounge chairs scatted around, soaking in Dorne’s hot autumn sunshine.

This was where he found Trystane Martell, lying on his stomach and coated in tanning oil.  Jon laughed at the ridiculous sight.  “When Daenerys mentioned to me that she was surprised that you weren’t already at the Water Gardens having ladies rub you down with coconut oil, I assumed that she was exaggerating.  Apparently not.”

Trystane looked up and smiled at him lazily.  “She’s wrong. It’s a blend of oils.  Coconut, avocado, argan, and marula.  And some other things.  Moisturizers, I think.  And I doubt Daenerys referred to my lovely paramour here or any of my other friends as ‘ladies.’  Probably ‘Trystane’s fucking harem,’ ‘Dornish slatterns,’ or ‘whores.’  Which was it?”

Jon looked at Mellei uncomfortably.  “That last one.  I’m sorry, Mellei.” 

Mellei laughed.  “That’s quite alright, Mr. Snow.  It’s not the first such dysphemism I’ve heard from Mrs. Martell.  Although I prefer ‘Trystane’s fucking harem.’  It’s delightfully redundant.”  Mellei and Trystane shared an amused glance that Jon could easily interpret.  Daenerys would suffer any insult, including “whore,” better than being referred to as “Mrs. Martell.”

Jon sat awkwardly on one of the lounges.  “I was under the impression that you wanted me to come here so we could work on the campaign.  That’s what you said.”

“I know what I said,” Trystane said lazily.  “It was the only way I could coax you down here.  But we’ll do some work, sure.  Later.  I thought you could use a break.  Enjoy some sunshine and Dornish hospitality.  I’ll still pay you, of course,” he teased.

“In that case,” Jon said, and chuckled.  He shrugged out of his jacket, leaned back on the longue chair, and put his feet up.

Trystane turned his head towards Mellei.  “See this fucking guy?  Such a brilliant campaign manager, I have to pay him to sunbathe at the Water Gardens.  Can you believe it?”

“In fact, I can, Mr. Martell,” Mellei said.  “I also am paid to sunbathe at the Water Gardens, so I suppose I too am brilliant.”

Trystane howled with laughter.  “Yes! You are!  Mell, could you be a dear and get my friend a drink?  What are you drinking, Jon?”

“Red wine, please?” Jon said, looking at Mellei apologetically.  She smiled at him and retreated to the nearby wet bar to pour a glass of wine.

Trystane looked at him skeptically.  “I hope you brought a bathing suit.  You must be boiling in that outfit.”

Jon looked down at his expensive black suit.  “It’s a little warm.  I wasn’t expecting the surprise vacation, or I would have dressed appropriately.  I did bring something suitable, though.”  Mellei returned with his wine and he took a large drink of it.

“Well, go change before you get sunstroke,” Trystane said.  “When you come back, we can talk some business.  If you insist.  Mell, can you show Jon where he can change and see if you can dig up some sunscreen?  Otherwise, our White Wolf will be a Red Wolf in about fifteen minutes.  Damned pasty Northerners.”

“Hey,” Jon grumbled.  “Technically, I am Dornish.  I was born here, you know.”  Mellei squinted at him skeptically before leading him away.

Ten minutes later, Jon returned to the pool feeling like an idiot, dressed as he was in a bathing suit and 800-dragon loafers.  Predictably, Trystane laughed at him. 

“Do they not have flip-flops in the North?” Trystane said mockingly.

“I don’t know,” Jon said.  “Probably.  I don’t have any, at any rate.”  He kicked off his loafers and shoved them under his lounge chair.

Trystane leaned over and retrieved a pair of flip-flops from under his lounge.  “See?  These are fantastic.  I got them at Target.  Or, I should say, Mellei bought them for me at Target.”

“You’re saying that one of the richest men in Westeros wears twenty-dragon plastic sandals from a discount store?”

“Are you kidding?” Trystane asked in disbelief.  “More like _five_ dragons, friend.  And Target isn’t just any discount store.  Mellei can tell you.”

Mellei faked a swoon. “I just adore Target.”  She motioned at her dress.  “Target,” she fake-whispered.

“Fucking Dorne,” Jon muttered under his breath.

Trystane heard him.  “I think you’ll come to appreciate our ways.  Anyway, it’s only the nouveau riche and bourgeois pretenders who need to put on airs.  Real rich people don’t waste money.  That’s why we’re rich.  Did you put on your sunscreen?”

“No,” Jon sighed.  He finished off his glass of wine which Mellei was quick to refill.  He squeezed some sunscreen into his palm and proceeded to apply it.  Mellei tsked when she saw him struggle to spread it on his back.

“Let me get your back, Mr. Snow,” she said.  “Such fair, Northern skin will burn easily.  The sun is much stronger here than you must be used to.”

Jon handed her the bottle of sunscreen.  “Thank you,” he muttered.  She sat behind him and made a production of sensuously massaging the lotion into his skin. Trystane smirked at his obvious discomfort.

“Calm down,” Trystane said and knocked back the rest of his glass of scotch before crunching on an ice cube.  “Madam President isn’t here to cast her judgmental eye.”

Jon rolled his eyes and relaxed a little.  “She wouldn’t care.  No point in getting skin cancer for nothing.”

“Exactly,” Trystane said.  “But hey, at least you weren’t banished from the capital.  You can go home if you want.”  He flipped over onto his back and donned a pair of sunglasses.  “Honestly, it’s fine.  It’s nice to be home.  No worries, no judgments, nothing to do except count my giant pile of money.”

“That’ll take you a really long time,” Jon quipped.

“I can’t complain.  I love it here.  ‘Please Brer Fox, please don’t throw me in the fucking briar patch,” he said sarcastically.  Mellei giggled and squeezed more sunscreen into her hand, which she massaged into the small of Jon’s back.

Jon scoffed.  “Enjoy your time in the briar patch, friend, because if Daenerys has any sense, she’ll call you back to the Red Keep.  I give it a week at most.  Hells, I wouldn’t be surprised if she calls you today.”

_Especially if I am exceptionally unlucky and Daenerys is pregnant._ He tried calculating the odds in his head.  _It’s a ten percent chance at best._

Trystane turned his head and looked at Jon with mild interest.  “You think so?  I’ve known Daenerys a long time, longer than you have.  She has many fine qualities, but forgiveness, sadly, is not one of them.”

“Fuck forgiveness,” Jon said.  “This is about survival.  She has her reelection to think about.  Yeah, she could try my plan of keeping you out of sight the next two years.  Send you here every Senate break, every weekend.  Lock you in the Maidenvault when she does have to suffer your presence in the capital.  She could, but she won’t.  She’ll want you by her side.  Aside from being angry, any possible motive she may have had for keeping you here is gone. The rumor mill is already churning little ‘possible rift between the president and her husband’ stories.  Let rumors like those churn long enough, and they become damaging.  I could have spun it, made sure the optics worked, but you saw what happened to me.”

“What exactly did happen?” Trystane asked.  “I only know what my staff told me and what was on the news.  I could only assume that it was bad, based on the sad video of Barristan confiscating your hard pass as you clutched your little box.  If it had been an amicable resignation, I imagine you would retained your pass and left through the tunnel.”

“Daenerys knows,” Jon said, tilting his head subtly towards Mellei.

“Mellei, dear, can you give us a few minutes to talk business?” Trystane asked.  “Check back in fifteen.”

Mellei took her hands off Jon and retreated.

“She knows about Harrenhal?” Trystane asked.

“She said that Walder Frey told her everything,” Jon said.

Trystane whistled.  “If that’s so, it hardly seems fair for her to blame you.  You didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t tell her the truth.  That’s not nothing.”

“You mean that you didn’t make her a conspirator?  Of course you fucking didn’t.  She’s a gods-damned lawyer; she should get it.  Did you explain that to her?”

“I didn’t get much of a chance to explain anything,” Jon said.  “I tried, believe me.  She told Barristan to carry me out if I didn’t leave.  She wouldn’t listen.”

“Sounds like Daenerys.  Still, it doesn’t seem fair.”

“It does to me,” Jon said.  He polished off his wine and flipped over to lay on his stomach.  “Perfectly fair.  And fitting.  An appropriate end for a thieving, homewrecking bastard.  Gods, if Ned Stark could see me now.  He’d be disgusted.  I can only pray to the gods for forgiveness that I’m happy that he isn’t here to see my disgrace.”

Trystane sighed.  “So dramatic.  Northern priggishness.  You worry too much about the gods and the dead.  They don’t care.  Daenerys and I wrecked our own home with very little help from you.  Mostly it was me, but certainly she and I more than you.”

“It should have been _no_ help from me.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Trystane said.  “But if I see Daenerys again, I’ll set her straight.  There’s no reason why you should be blamed for the stupid decisions other people made.”

“I don’t want you to tell her,” Jon said firmly.

“Why not?”

“This is for the best.  I tried to explain, and she didn’t want to hear it.  I don’t know what Frey said to her and it doesn’t really matter.  I have a responsibility to my business partners.  It’s time that I refocus on that.  If she would take Walder Frey’s word over mine, it couldn’t be the case that she ever really trusted me.  For all I know, he told her the truth and that was enough for her.  I concealed the plot and covered it up.  She has every right to be angry.”  _Just as I’m angry with her,_ he didn’t both adding.

“If that’s what you want,” Trystane said.  “I mean, I’m not going to lie if she asks me a direct question.  But if you don’t want me to say anything, I won’t go out of my way to defend you.  Not that I think I’ll have the opportunity to tell her anything.  Most likely, she’s finished with us both.”

Jon was quiet for a few moments.  He wondered if he should tell Trystane about Frey.  _He deserves to know.  Anyway, Frey is dead.  There isn’t any need to keep it a secret from him._ “He’s the one who hired the assassin.  Frey.  I wonder if he told her that part.”

Trystane’s face tuned red with anger and shock.  “What?”

“I had a mountain of evidence proving it,” Jon said.  “I was going to tell Daenerys and turn my evidence over to the federal police, but my office was broken into and all of it was stolen.  I never got to tell her.  Not that she would have believed me.  I’m sure that’s why Frey told her about Harrenhal.  So she wouldn’t believe me when I told her that he had tried to kill her.”

“Why did he do it?”

“He thought that Harrenhal was about to be exposed,” Jon explained.  “That’s what he said, at least.  Frey apparently thought that if Daenerys was assassinated, any investigation into election rigging would be moot.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I know.  And I don’t believe it.  But that’s what he claimed.  Whatever the real reason was died with him.  He probably thought that discrediting me would conceal his true motive and his co-conspirators, if any.  He tried to frame Sandor.  Connecting me with it was always part of his plan.”

“You think there were others involved in the assassination attempt?”

“I can’t prove it.  Frey wouldn’t implicate anyone else and all the evidence only pointed at him and the assassin he hired.  He might have cracked under interrogation, but there was never a chance for that to happen.  Hours after I last spoke with him, he was dead.”

“I thought that it was bizarre that a man like that would kill himself,” Trystane said.  “Please tell me that you threw him out of the window yourself rather than having Clegane do it.”

“He committed suicide.”

“If you say so.”

“He did.  I saw it happen with my own eyes, from the ground.”

“Why were you at Frey Tower?”

“Scoping out new office space.”  Jon decided to leave Lyanna out it.  It was too unbelievable, and she was a wildcard.  There was no telling what she might do if someone revealed her involvement.  No one could ever prove Jon killed Frey.  Any eye-witnesses could only prove that he couldn’t have done it.

Trystane pushed his sunglasses down and gave him a calculating look.  “Huh.  Your building is rather dilapidated.  Charming though.”

“Yeah.  I decided against moving.  Too sentimental about the old place.”

“Of course.”

Mellei chose that moment to return carrying a basket of blood oranges, stuffed grape leaves, ripened soft cheese, sliced crusty bread, and assorted olives.  She set the basket on the side table and took Trystane’s glass to refill it.  “I thought you and Mr. Snow might be hungry.”

“Yes, thank you,” Trystane said.  “This is perfect.”

“Can we get started on campaign strategy now?” Jon asked.

Trystane popped an olive in his mouth.  “Yeah. Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me.


End file.
